


Bond of Circumstance

by LissyStage



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bonds, Child Abuse, Developing Relationship, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Epiphanies, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Slash, Sanctuary, Summer Before Fifth-Year
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-19 07:38:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/881193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LissyStage/pseuds/LissyStage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An epiphany drives Draco Malfoy from the Hogwarts Express shortly after the Triwizard Tournament to Dumbledore's office, where he pleads for Sanctuary. Unfortunately, his father is still the Dark Lord's right-hand man. Being sent to a Muggle's house wouldn't have been so bad if Harry Potter wasn't there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sloan33](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Sloan33).



> Title: Bond of Circumstance
> 
> Beta: CleopatraIsMyName
> 
> Rating: T/PG-13 (Rating subject to change)
> 
> Challenge: This was a challenge previously posted by Sloan33 on HPFC. I have decided to take it on! ^~^
> 
> Disclaimer: This work of fiction is in no way connected to the author of Harry Potter, JK Rowling. Harry Potter is owned by her, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
> 
> Warning(s): WIP. DMHP slash, depictions of child abuse, bonded mates, gore, romance, fluff, angst, torture, slash, etc.
> 
> Pairings: Harry/Draco (any others will be added as the story progresses)

Albus looked up when his wards detected a presence near his office.

"Odd," he thought to himself. The last of the children should've already boarded the Hogwarts Express. Especially after the previous events taken place after the last round of the TriWizard Tournament, the maze. With Voldemort having risen again, special precautions had been taken during the boarding process.

He stood up slowly, after having been sitting for so long, and closed his eyes.

As he reached inside the wards, he felt a breeze of his magic float underneath the doorway.

Seeing, by way of magic, was always an awe-inspiring sensation; and, like always, he felt his consciousness soar up, until he was magic to face with the incoming intruder.

"Mister Malfoy?" he thought, before slipping back into his body. He sat back down, quickly, then when he felt the teen raise his hand up to the door, yelled, "Come in, Mister Malfoy."

He could feel the boy's hesitancy. Several seconds passed before he relinquished his hold on the wards. Moments after doing so, the young Malfoy heir opened the door, and stepped into the room.

He looked very nervous, his usual mask of bravado and superiority tucked away, somewhere. The boy fidgeted, before taking a seat in front of Albus' desk, wiping his sweaty palms on the front of his trousers.

The bearded old wizard laced his fingers together on his desk, then smiled at the boy. Motioning towards his supply of candy, he offered, "Lemon drop, Mister Malfoy?"

And for the first time in a while, a student nodded his head, and took up the proffered candy. It probably helped that Albus knew, that the flaxen-haired teen knew, that the hard candies were laced with a small Calming Draught.

As the boy sucked on the candy, Albus leaned forward, "What do you need, Mister Malfoy?"

Draco took a deep, shuttering, breath and said, "Sanctuary."

Several minutes passed by, and Albus picked up his wand, casting a Patronus. A silvery-mist form of Fawkes was ordered to call for Severus Snape, Minerva McGonagall, and Sirius Black. With a small dose of Veritaserum.

The two talked about his need for Sanctuary, of Draco's parents, his desperateness, and how being trained to be a Death Eater wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

And that is the story of how Draco Malfoy came to be the newest resident and temporary lodger of Number 4, Privet Drive.


	2. A Look into Past Events

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draco's POV, gais!

It hadn't just been that single epiphany of a life spent in virtual slavery, kissing the boots of the evilest man he'd ever get the chance to see. Draco had also been thinking over the mortifying degradation that he had been suffering over the past few years.

Although he would never readily admit to his failures, he did know power when he saw it. Being a Malfoy  _did_  have its perks, after all. He just hadn't been able to recognize it in Potter before... before that day at the tournament; when Potter had disappeared, and Draco's stomach had done a back-flip.

He was lucky that he was able to keep his customary mask on, at that moment, but he couldn't help but be just the slightest bit worried on what this turn of events would cause. The ripple effect, as it was.

Then, later confronting Potter, and insulting the Hufflepuff... he had felt that power. That immense aura of magic that caused the air to tremble, the leaves to shake, and Draco's heartbeat to quicken, adrenaline rushing through his veins.

The power that Potter had, somehow, tapped into; his fury, having brought it on. Draco was almost glad that he had ended up having taken a hit.

Almost.

Now, here he was... hesitating over whether or not to walk to the old codger's office. He did have a home to go to, but his future there was looking bleaker by every passing second.

Taking a deep breath, Draco did a bunk and sidled into the bathroom.

"Draco?" he heard being called. It was  _just_  his luck that his friends had noticed his absence. Usually, they just ignored him unless it was absolutely necessary. There was Pansy, who kept up her romantic front, clinging to him at every moment.

Crabbe and Goyle were full believers in the colossal power of the Dark Lord, agreeing with any of the shite he spouted about the mudbloods and Potter, especially.

Don't even get him started on Blaise. The teen may very well be loyal to an extent, but that wasn't the true nature of a Slytherin. Cunning... ambition... sneakiness... All just ways that spelt power-hungry. Because, face it, who didn't want a life of luxury? To be comfortable?

But all the Slytherins knew that they had to work hard, make connections, and use their wits. Otherwise, how does one acquire power?

Keeping an ear out, just in case his two mates came his way, Draco walked into a stall, concealing himself using a Charm.

A few moments later, the platinum blond cast a Tempus, checking the time. 'Great,' he thought. The time shown as half past ten. 'More than enough time to make my way towards Dumbledore's office.'

Checking he had all his belongings with him, and the extra Galleons he kept on-hand, he slowly lowered himself from the toilet seat he'd been standing on, still listening for his two friends.

When he felt that the coast was clear, he cast a quick  _Finite_  and walked out of the stall, staring into the mirror.

'Should I do this?' he asked himself, fixing his appearance. Nodding his head, he assured himself that this was the only way he would live through this bloody war. Because that's what this would be, soon enough: a war. Another Voldemort War based on politics and blood.

Then, he questioned how he should walk into the office. Should he use a particular mask, or should he offer something in return?

Taking a deep, slow breath, he exhaled just as steadily. Dumbledore was a Gryffindor, if the way he coddled that particular House was any sign. So, he would fight fire with fire; or, as the situation calls for, Gryffindor sympathy with Gryffindor recklessness.

Taking up his bag, and checking he still had everything, the blond wizard cast the Tempus, again. 'Fourteen past eleven,' he sighed, then straightened his shoulders, striding towards the door.

As he walked down the labyrinth, he noted that the halls felt strangely empty, as if the magic was saving its energy for the next term. And it didn't really make any sense, this odd observation. The portraits were still moving, the staircases were probably still switching around, and the house elves were still cleaning.

But the desolateness was just too much for the young Slytherin, so he hastened his pace, regarding everything with an inquisitive gaze. The raised ceiling, the gothic portrait frames, the wizards and witches from centuries before, situated in said portraits, and the clothing: kilts, dresses, armour, robes, et cetera.

He had never taken the time to properly admire the castle, its age, and the people that had trained here... and to think that a select group of dark wizards and witches may try and destroy such history... And the thought that Draco may have almost been a part of that madness, that chaos, the struggle. It made him sick with guilt. But, he also felt a small burst pride in his change.

Before he knew it, he stood before the Gargoyles, and the office. Thinking back to what he had heard, Draco took a list out of his bag. 'Hmm...' he thought to himself. 'What have I seen the Headmaster eating, recently?'

Casting a quick spell on the piece of parchment, Draco looked over the entire list of candy sold in Honeydukes, along with his little check marks, denoting the ones he'd seen the Headmaster happily munching on during this term.

After all, every Slytherin needed a back-up for times such as these.

  * Acid Pops ✘
  * Bat's Blood Soup ✘
  * Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans ✓
  * Blood-flavoured lollipops ✓ (off his rocker)
  * Cauldron Cakes ✓
  * Charm Choc ✘
  * Chocoballs ✓
  * Chocolate Cauldrons (Severus, ironically, hates them)
  * Chocolate Frogs ✓
  * Chocolate Skeletons ✘
  * Chocolate Wands ✘
  * Choco-Loco ✘
  * Crystallised pineapple ✓
  * Drooble's Best Blowing Gum (maybe in private?)
  * Exploding bonbons ✘
  * Fizzing Whizzbees ✓
  * Fudge Flies ✘
  * Glacial Snow Flakes ✓
  * Honeydukes Best Chocolate ✓
  * Honeydukes Mice Pops ✓
  * Ice Mice ✘
  * Jelly Slugs ✓
  * Liquorice Wands ✓
  * No-Melt Ice cream ✘
  * Nougat Chunks (never seen these before)
  * Pepper Imps (what is this?)
  * Peppermint Toad (sounds revoltingly refreshing)
  * Pink Coconut Ice ✘ (good riddance; looks weird)
  * Pixie Puffs ✘
  * Pumpkin fizz ✘
  * Pumpkin Pasties ✓
  * Salt Water Taffy ✓
  * Shock-o-Choc ✘
  * Skeletal Sweets ✘
  * Spindle's Lick'O'Rish Spiders ✘ (be funny to give these to the Weasel, one day)
  * Sugar Quills ✓
  * Sugared Butterfly Wings ✓
  * Toffees ✓
  * Toothflossing Stringmints ✓
  * Tooth-Splintering Strongmints ✘
  * Treacle fudge ✓
  * Wizochoc ✘



Squinting at his list, Draco stated, "Peppermint Toad." The entrance opened, with a groan, revealing a winding staircase, and Draco grunted in distaste at the thought of walking up those steps. Muttering darkly under his breath, Draco calmly dropped most of his shields, except a few guarding his feelings and secrets, and marched up the steps.

When he got close to the door, he could sense the wards, and the Headmaster's magic rising up to meet his eyes. Not flinching, and acting as if he hadn't just felt that, he hesitated. Did he really want to sacrifice his home? The only family he'd ever known? What if he still lost?

'Then I'll have been a fool, but I don't believe this to be the case. Every failure these past few years has been of my own making - and, I daresay, well-deserving - making the past me a failure. However, I am making the right decision, now.'

Taking a deep breath, he raised his hand to knock on the huge door, but was intercepted by a, "Come in, Mister Malfoy." He opened up the door, and took a long look around. The entire office was a complete mess, knick-knacks and precious artefacts scattered throughout.

Trying to keep his thoughts centred on the task at hand, Draco tried not to look too "at awe" concerning the office, itself. Looking at Dumbledore, he noted the pensive expression, the surprise on his face. He hadn't been expecting him, Draco Malfoy, to come to his office.

Acting his part, Draco fidgeted restlessly, allowing his nervous to shine through. Taking a seat in front of the man's desk, Draco wiped his suddenly sweaty palms on the front of his trousers, looking up at the man. Locking eyes, he felt a presence push at his mind, and allowed his thoughts to be brought to the fore-front.

Taking a deep breath, he slumped into the chair, allowing himself to become comfortable, for the mean time. Dumbledore threaded his fingers together, and then motioned toward his jar of hard sweets.

"Lemon drop?" he offered, smiling kindly at Draco. The Slytherin nodded, recalling one of his father's old lessons, and odd pieces of advice.

' _If that scheming, old man offers you one of his Lemon Drops, graciously turn it down. He has them laced with a small Calming Drought; just enough to make you relax in his presence, and sacrifice your secrets.'_

Dumbledore seemed stunned by his acceptance of the proffered candy, but; nevertheless, pleased by it. It showed the Slytherin's willingness for vulnerability, in such a special situation.

The bearded wizard stood up slowly, on account of his old age, and walked around the desk, then leaned forward towards Draco. "What do you need, Mister Malfoy?"

Draco took a deep, shaky breath, and answered, "Sanctuary."

Dumbledore seemed to be gauging Draco's honesty, moving his eyes from one part of his face to the other. With a bob of his head, a motion of ascent, the older man picked up his wand, and cast a Patronus. The silver-mist image of his familiar blew out of his wand, and he ordered it to bring up Professor McGonagall, Snape – with a vial of Veritaserum – and Sirius Black.

Blanching at the last name, Draco looked up at the old coot as if he was off his trolley. The man smiled, and then said, "He was innocent."

Recalling the tale of his betrayal of the Potters, the blond teen decided he would take the older wizard's word on it. Not everything he had heard was true, after all.

Dumbledore looked at Draco soberly, and then said, "You do understand what you will have to do, Mister Malfoy?"

Bobbing his head, Draco chewed on the fragile Lemon Drop in his mouth, swallowing reflexively. "Yes, you will give me Veritaserum and I will have to tell you anything regarding my position in the up-coming war, about my family, why I am here, and how trustworthy I will be."

Dumbledore nodded his head, face expressing his sadness and sympathy at the state of affairs the youth had been placed in.

Several moments passed, and a knock was heard at the door. "Come in Severus, Minerva." Draco raised his head from the finger nails he was currently inspecting, and met the gaze of his godfather. The man's eyes held a flicker of pride, before he turned away towards the Headmaster, holding the vial of liquid.

Professor McGonagall's face was soft, although it still held her trademark sternness, lips still pursed. She placed a hand on the young heir's shoulder, a sign of comfort.

The last, Sirius Black, came in through the Floo. After seeing his visage everywhere, during third-year, Draco could still identify him. He looked at Draco, and then pierced Dumbledore with a gaze of anger. "How can you be sure that the Malfoy brat won't turn us in, the moment the chance arises?"

Flinching, Draco didn't say anything to his defence. He had tormented Potter for the past few years; that, coupled with the other teen's temper, was enough for Draco to know that he probably deserved a bit of his outrage. Okay, maybe a lot. Most of it, really.

Dumbledore just said, "I believe Mister Malfoy can speak for himself, don't you agree?"

Black harrumphed, the turned his head towards Draco. "So, what're you doing here?"

"Joining the winning side," Draco calmly stated, hands folded in his lap.

The man scoffed at Draco's reply.

Stepping forward, Snape looked at Dumbledore, but not before glaring daggers at Black. "I have the Veritaserum you requested, Headmaster," he said.

Dumbledore nodded his head, "Administer two drops." Bobbing his head at the order, Snape walked towards Draco, and then leaned forward, uncorking the bottle.

The teen opened his mouth obligingly, feeling the man's cold hands tilt his chin up. Two drops carefully landed on his tongue, and Draco swallowed. The effects were near-instantaneous. He felt detached from entire scene, a lightness of head he'd never experienced before.

"What is your name?"

"Draco Lucius Malfoy."

"When is your birthday?"

"The fifth of June, 1980." Nodding his head, Snape stepped aside for McGonagall, who would be doing the questioning.

Draco felt like he was witnessing the interrogation outside, not the one being questioned. It was a strange experience, and he hoped to never be subjected to it again. The questions were all standard, asking about his home life, his parents, and their role in the war.

Draco answered, in a monotone voice, about how he had been spoiled by his parents. About how, when he was about eight, his mother and father had taken him aside, and told him about the First Voldemort War, and how they had been on the Dark Lord's side. About their hopes of a clean, pure future; one where the muggleborn were non-existent and the purebloods ruled with an iron fist.

As the questions got to the more recent events, Draco told them about his father telling him to simply 'lie low', in second-year. About the lessons he'd learned about the Dark Arts, and torture, over the years. And about how he'd finally realised he needn't learn such meaningless things, when he was probably going to end up dead, on the wrong side of the war.

When they were all satisfied, including Black, Draco was given the antidote. "So," Draco said, still recovering from the effects of the administered truth serum. "What's going to happen to me?"

"We will be settling you at a place where no one would suspect your presence, Mister Malfoy." Dumbledore responded, a twinkle bright in his eyes. Draco had almost forgotten how aggravatingly vague the wizard could be.

Almost.

Nodding, Draco stood up, stretching his arms over his head. Following the older man to the Floo fireplace, he was given a handful of the black powder from a small sack placed strategically atop of the mantle. "Just call out, 'Wisteria Walk'."

Draco breathed deeply, shrugged his bag onto his shoulder, and did as the wizard said, throwing in the Floo powder, and calling out the address. He walked out in a burst of smoke, looking around the small drawing room. Dumbledore came in a beat later, humming a song under his breath.

Draco ignored him, and asked, "Where are we?"

"Near where you will be staying. This is just a short stop."

Rolling his eyes in disbelief, Draco followed Dumbledore out to the living room.

'The house,' Draco decided, 'smells like old cabbage and cats.' Massaging the bridge of his nose, Draco focused on breathing through his mouth. He was led outside, and saw dozens of other similarly designed house lining the road and walkways.

He rubbed his face with a hand; now realising he was in a muggle neighbourhood. 'He better know what he's doing.' Draco sneered, quickening his pace. Dumbledore was already halfway down the street, walking towards another house.

Though they all looked the same, they also had some distinct differences. This one, for example, had a vegetable and flower garden out front. As they neared the door, upon closer inspection, the plaque read, "Number 4 Privet Drive." As the blond memorised the address, the older wizard raised his fist and knocked on the door.

A few seconds later, a deep male voice called, "I'll get it, Mum!" The brown-painted door opened up swiftly, and a rather pudgy, older teen stood in the entrance. Draco ground his teeth together at his expression of disgust, fingers itching to wipe the look off of his pig-face.

A clearing of Dumbledore's throat, along with a pointed look at Draco's carefully blank face, ruined those plans. "Hello, Dudley. May I speak with your parents?"

The brunet looked back and yelled, "Mum, there's two oddly dressed men here for you! I think it may have something to do with the freak!"

Blinking, Draco simply thought, 'Freak?'

The teen walked away when a slim woman took his place in front of the two wizards. "What is it?" she rudely questioned, a brow arched up in incredulousness.

"Well," Dumbledore began, "Along with your current charge, Mister Potter, I have Mister Draco Malfoy here, needing a place to say for part of the summer."

Draco and the woman looked at the man in outrage. "I have to stay with Potter's muggle family?" he cried out, as the woman yelled, "You want me to house another freak?"

Dumbledore just smiled brightly in response, making Draco's eye twitch in irritation. Weren't there rumours that the man had gone completely gormless years ago? Well, it looked like they had a basis in fact.

The woman huffed in irritation, and then beckoned Draco inside of her home. "You owe me, you old codger." Dumbledore just twinkled in reply, leaving without a single glance back. Not that Draco had turned to look and see if he had, not at all.

She looked him over, and asked, "Who are you?"

"Draco Malfoy," he sneered, arms crossed in front of his chest.

"And you're friends with Potter?"

Draco just shook his head, looking at her quizzically. "Why do you c-"

His question was cut off when he heard a grunt upstairs. "What are you doing sitting on the stairs, Potter?"

"None of your business, Dudders!" a voice mocked. Draco bristled in agitation, wishing he hadn't needed to hear it again, after  _just_  leaving the school.

Of course, beggars couldn't be choosers. He sighed and uncrossed his arms, "You may as well come down, Potter," the blond called, boredom lacing his tone.

And that's when Potter descended down the stairs, with an expression of pure anger that had taken over his features.

Of course, that was probably Draco's fault.


	3. A Glorious Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning(s): Cursing

"Aw, Potty," Draco found himself mock-pouting. "Didn't you miss me?"

"No, you git, of course I didn't," the teen snapped, eyes narrowed in baleful rage. "Now, what in the bloody hell are you doing here?"

"Dumbledore brought me here," the blond drawled in boredom, shrugging his bag up higher on his shoulder. "What do you  _think_  I'm doing here?"

The stare-down continued for a few minutes, before Potter finally averted his gaze. Draco mentally cheered at his minor win, before the slim woman who had answered the door cleared her throat.

"Okay," she said, eyes narrowing at Potter for a split-second. Draco filed that away for another time, for analysis. "Now, show Malfoy to the guest room, boy."

They both sputtered their own protests, horrified by the thought of being so close to the other, so quickly.

"No buts," she snapped, arms crossed. "Now," she motioned towards the stairs in a, 'Shoo, shoo!' gesture. "Help the boy get settled. And don't let me find you doing anything... strange."

Potter rubbed his head in irritation, and then suddenly made for the stairs. "C'mon, Malfoy. The faster we get this over with, the less time we actually have to spend in each other's company."

"Whatever, Scarhead," the blond rolled his eyes, yet still trailed behind the younger teen.

When they arrived at the top of the stairs, Draco scanned the hallway. There were two doors a few feet from the staircase, and the hallway went down further down the right, where three other doors were.

Potter bypassed the first two doors, and stopped at the first one on the right-side of the hallway.

"Here is the guest room," he opened the door, leaning against the frame. "Aunt Petunia will most likely scold me if I don't stay here, and 'attend' to your 'needs'."

Grunting his disapproval, Draco walked through the door, accidentally on purpose, shoving the raven-haired teen up against it, as he passed him.

Taking off his bag, Draco sprawled on top of the bed, spread-eagled. Sighing out his tension, he realised that the bed wasn't nearly as comfortable as the one he had left behind, never to return again.

He heard the door close with an audible click, then the shuffle of feet a little ways further from the bed. The blond wizard sat up on his elbows, glancing over at the other teen.

Potter was slumped in a chair near the wardrobe, a hand running through his - perpetually dishevelled - raven locks.

"So," Draco cut into the silence, falling back onto the bed with a slight  _thud_. "Where is this... place?"

"Dumbledore didn't tell you?" Potter asked.

Draco shook his head, rolling over onto his side.

"You're in southern east England, in Little Whinging, Surrey."

Draco nodded his head, this time, fiddling with the bed-spread.

"Number Four, Privet Drive, to be exact."

Draco sighed, and then crawled higher up on the bed.

"Why are you here, Malfoy?"

Though his reply was muffled, Draco's reply was still audible. "None of your business, Potter."

He stifled his mischievous smile when Potter growled in agitation at his rude answer.

"I'm trying to be civil, the least you could do is do the same."

"I'd rather not, Potter," Draco drawled. "This isn't about you, as much as my self-preservation. I still don't like you, nor do I enjoy your marvellous company."

Potter stood up, Draco peeked at him. His face was twisted in anger, and irritation. Then, the teen shook his head.

"I don't even know why I bothered," he grumbled, stomping over to the door. "Stupid Ferret..."

Though the memory still, mildly traumatised Draco, it didn't make him flare up with rage. Maybe embarrassment, and definitely humiliation, but he'd pretty much done it to himself. Professor Mad-Eye had been correct to call him a right coward, though being a ferret seemed a bit harsh…

Sitting up, Draco reached over for his bag. When he located the way-ward item, he searched inside for his trunks and things.

One of the many, many perks of being a Malfoy: bypassing the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery. Draco didn't have the Charm required on an underage wizard's ever cast on him. Due to the money that his father paid several of the Ministry Workers in-charge of the Improper Use of Magic Office, Draco was able to use magic whenever, wherever, he wanted. Constantly breaking the Trace was either ignored, or they hadn't added it to his person.

He got off the bed and placed his trunks next to the wardrobe. Once he had them situated, he stepped back and whispered an  _Engorgio_. They immediately grew into their natural size.

The teen knelt in front of both, opening them up with a quick  _Alohomora_. After investigating thoroughly, he found that all of his things had survived the Charm.

Realising that he had absolutely no idea what to do, especially since he had annoyed his only actual entertainment, he settled for doing some of his summer Potions work.

Grumbling under his breath about 'Advanced Coursework', and the woes of having the professor as his Godfather, he settled on the floor with his required books, some parchment, a quill pen, and ink.

About an hour, or so, later, as the blond was ensconced in his work, the door squeaked open.

Looking up, he saw Potter standing near the doorway, arms crossed, deliberately staring hard at the windows.

"Care to explain why you have disturbed my peace?" the flaxen-haired teen drawled, finishing the sentence he was working on.

"Aunt Petunia says she wants to know what you prefer."

"What I prefer...?"

"Yes, Malfoy, what you prefer to eat," Potter snapped. "It takes a long time to prepare a meal, especially with an unexpected guest. Now, what do you like?"

"I'm not especially picky," he started, only to get interrupted by Potter's snort. Glaring at him, in annoyance, Draco complained, "Despite what you think, Potter I'm honestly not. I may be spoiled, but I also know when to accept my circumstances. I am a Malfoy, and Malfoys don't whinge when things don't go their way." ' _Instead, they do what they can until things_ do _go their way_ ,' Draco added mentally.

Potter turned to leave, then said, "Fine, but don't throw a fit if I-Aunt Petunia decides that everyone is to eat cold meat and a salad."

Though the slip-up wasn't very noticeable, at all, Draco was able to recognise such things. It didn't make any sense why Potter was the one cooking; after all, Draco had heard the teen was prized and treasured, spoiled more so than Draco had ever been.

But, that was a rumour… And hadn't he berated himself for always believing what he heard as truth? Thinking back on it, Potter had never showed those classic signs that Draco, himself, exhibited. Sure, the sodding prat was self-righteous as all hell, but he hadn't ever whinged like Draco had...

And his head was now hurting. Malfoys don't get headaches. He really needed to stop thinking so much about Potter and his relatives. The events would unfold, soon enough. Why waste his time thinking useless rubbish over, when all he needed to do was observe?

With a nod, Draco set to finishing the rest of his essay up, carefully explaining the differences between the uses and effects of a Girding Potion, and an Invigoration Draught.

When a knocked sounded at the door, several minutes seemed to have passed by without Draco knowing it. Casting a quick  _Tempus_ , he was bewildered to see that it was already half-past six.

Getting up, he quickly put away his parchments and things, stretching for a few seconds to get rid of all the kinks. When he deemed himself ready, he shed his robes, and opened the door.

The beefy boy from earlier glared him, and then muttered something about the food being ready. Raising a single eyebrow at him, Draco walked past swiftly.

When he was already half-way down the stairs, he heard the door open. A very, very large man was standing there. He had a brown moustache, and double chins. Draco entertained the visual fantasy of him being a whale, or some sort of rare species of walrus.

As he walked down the rest of the flight of stairs, the man went purple in the face from anger. "Who are you?!" he demanded.

"I'm Draco Malfoy," the blond drawled. "Dumbledore dropped me off for the month."

"Why that-" the man sputtered. "Boy, get in here!"

Potter came remarkably fast, as if he were chasing after a Snitch on his broom. "Yes, Uncle Vernon?"

"Is what this boy said, true? Did that old man drop him off?"

Gritting his teeth, Draco tried not to allow any of his usual snark to burst through.

"Yes, Uncle Vernon," Potter looked down briefly at his feet.

"I already have one freak here, now I have another? What is this, a circus?"

Though Draco had no idea what a circus was, Potter seemed to. His fingers curled up into a fist, though he didn't show any of his usual defiance; instead, he was subservient, answering questions with a 'Yes, sir ' or a 'No, sir.' It was eerie, and slightly upsetting for Draco to see Potter in such a light.

He made no comment to the raven-haired teen as he passed by, oddly quiet. He had no idea what to say after such a scene, and knew it wasn't any of his own business.

So, when he opened his mouth to say what came out of his mouth, next… Well, it surprised even him. "I have the full usage of my wand."

The entire family stopped at that, unknowingly falling into Draco's "trap". In reality, the words that were falling from his lips seemed... incredible, at best.

"What?" Potter whispered.

"I am currently protected from the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, just in case you wanted to know, Potter."

And with that, Draco sat at the table, making a note that Potter settled in a few tense seconds later, on his right. Glancing around, as he got comfortable in the chair, the teen observed the family surrounding him, and Potter. They were in different stages of disbelief. Well, Petunia was. Her husband and their son were glaring hatefully at their food, though it seemed to also be borne from their fright.

And that was when Draco looked down at his plate of food. He was immediately assaulted by the smells of fully-cooked beef, and the familiar mixture of sliced mushrooms and an artfully made sauce. He hadn't noticed it before, having been preoccupied virtually gawking at Potter's odd behaviour.

Picking up his fork and taking a bite, the teen was astonished to realise that Potter had some remarkable talent in the kitchen. Of course, the blond would never let the other teen know of his approval. It just wasn't in his character, and after putting him down for years, it wouldn't settle with his Malfoy pride.

Musing to himself, Draco noted that he usually only ate Spaghetti Bolognese at the Manor, and only on days when his parents were out at dinner parties. He'd mastered the act of whinging his way out of it, ever since he comprehended how wholly mind-numbing they were – no other children ever being at the parties his parents frequented.

The house elves – evermore the prideful, and ancient, creatures he'd grown up with - beamed in pride whenever Draco called on one of them for food, especially the Spaghetti. His enforced Malfoy lessons prevented him from ever giving them some sort of verbal proof of his gratitude, but they always seemed to pick up on it, based on his mannerisms and eagerness. Several decades with Malfoys seemed to have helped them understood the workings underneath the mask.

Now, with a plate of food - made in such a way, that the house elves would be satisfied with it - Draco allowed himself the rare chance to indulge.

No way would the flaxen-haired teen ever let Potter know how much he would certainly enjoy the food, though. Masking his delight, the teen ate as slowly as he could get away with, savouring the flavours on his tongue.

It was definitely something to know that the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry Potter, knew his way around a kitchen; a hobby he hadn't thought the raven-haired teen capable of enjoying to its full capacity.

Draco found himself to be slightly disappointed when he realised his food was gone, since surely he could've managed another serving of such delicious spaghetti.

At a loss as to what to do with the plate, since the house elves usually just ' _popped'_  in for the dishes, he drank a glass of water.

The teen glanced to his right when he heard a muffled cry of pain. Potter was rubbing his leg, or ankle, with a piteous expression on his face. Petunia, across from him, was looking pointedly towards Draco's direction.

Draco could sense the rolling of Potter's eyes, having been on the other side of his irritation for years, and was relieved when the raven-haired teen took the hint, taking up the blond's plate, along with his own, to the metal thing next to all of the... other metal things.

Shaking his head at the things he didn't know, he stood up. All eyes were on him, and the blond raised an eyebrow at them all.

Petunia's husband waved him off, and he left, though the teen could still feel the eyes on the back of his head.

When he was back up in the guest room, for the second time that day, Draco collapsed on the bed. Thinking he'd rather like to go to sleep, he closed his eyes, arms wrapped around one of the pillows.

The Slytherin grumbled when he heard the brusque knock on his door, and got up to open it.

Potter was standing there, glaring at him. He rubbed his shoulder where the Gryffindor shoved past him, sitting on the bed.

"What?" Draco asked, arms crossed in front of his chest.

"What was that?"

Thinking back on his earlier actions, Draco stared out the window. "What was what?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Malfoy," Potter snapped. "Why did you say what you did, downstairs?"

"I don't know," the blond shrugged, still not looking at Potter. "Now that you're done trying to lecture me on my actions, how about that little servant act?"

The raven-haired teen flushed in anger, standing up with a flourish. "Fuck you, you bloody git."

"Shut up, Potty, and get out!"

They glared hatefully at each other, neither willing to back down. The decision of who was going to turn tail first was taken out of their hands when that pig, Dudley, opened the door.

"Oi, Potter," he grumbled. "Dad wants to speak to you."

Potter seemed to pale, swallowing thickly. "Did he say about what?"

"No, freak," Dudley crossed his arms. "Just get downstairs."

With a nod, Potter left the room, back tense, closing the door shut behind him.

Not knowing how to feel about the silence, Draco lay back down on the bed, closing his eyes to go to sleep.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta suggested the spaghetti xD


	4. Decisions, Decisions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning(s): Cursing

Draco's dreams were an indefinable mess; so much so, that when he had finally woken up the next morning, he was disoriented. He could vaguely remember smirking faces, and the eerie sound of fleshing pounding flesh. As far as omens came, that was a confusing one.

Staring up at the ceiling, he shook away the dreams, and decided to try and take the time to go over the events of the previous day. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on what he'd seen and heard.

Well, he was going to be living in a muggle neighbourhood, for the rest of the two months before next school year. All of the houses in this muggle neighbourhood looked the same, making the young aristocrat question the creativity of said muggles.

Then, things had gotten weird. Not that he wasn't glad to see Potty - oh, it was just so wonderful - but his relatives were... rather strange. The Boy-Who-Lived's uncle and cousin were gigantic, as if they were half-troll. If Draco wasn't nearly positive they were muggles, he would think they were. After all, they surely looked like they could be.

Potter's aunt was a stick in comparison, as tiny as she was. Draco wondered, blithely, whether or not Potter's mum looked like her. He'd heard she was a red-head, though…

And the way they treated Potter as if he were abnormal, if the nicknames were anything to go by... Sure, the git was annoying as hell, but not enough to warrant such treatment.

Draco didn't know whether or not he actually cared, though. It's not as if he hadn't enjoyed making the teen's life a living hell at Hogwarts; it was enjoyable,  ~~getting so much attention from the enormous prat~~   _bullying_  him. There was no need for his  _attention_ , after all.

Just when he was about to question why Potter's uncle wanted to see him last night, Draco started at the sound of a voice rumbling, "Boy, get your lazy arse down here and make us some breakfast!"

A crash came from the other side of the hallway, along with the creaking of a door, and the blond could hear rapid footfalls getting farther away.

Bemusedly, he stretched, climbed out of the bed, grabbed his wand, and cast a quick  _Tempus_. The time shone as half past nine. Taking this as his cue to disrupt the younger teen's morning, the blond aristocrat walked out of the room.

After he cast a few Charms in the loo - ones meant for grooming and hygiene - Draco walked down the stairs.

The kitchen was completely spotless, as well as much of the house. The up-keep was even better than the Manor's, and that was saying something. If Draco held any sort of respect for muggles, he would be afraid of touching anything. Nevertheless, he still refrained. A clean muggle was still a muggle, after all.

Standing there, at the white box with those four black circular things, was Potter looking as terrific as ever. The teen was dressed in rags, again, and his hair was even scruffier than usual. Draco, for the life of him, couldn't seem to recall hearing the raven-haired teen walk into the bathroom.

"Potter," Draco started, leaning against one of the counters. Potter flinched, most likely to do with his sudden appearance. "Why do you look as if you hadn't ever heard of the term, 'shower'?"

"Because I just woke up, you sodding git," the teen answered gruffly, grinding his teeth in irascibility.

"Oh." Draco simply said, examining his nails. Glancing around at the kitchen, Draco sneered to himself at the weird devices and objects.

"Potter..."

"What  _is_  it, Malfoy?"

"What are you using to cook the food?"

Looking up from the weird contraption, Potter glanced at Draco sceptically. "Why do you want to know?"

"I'm bored and curious. Enlighten me."

"It's a cooker."

Draco nodded his head. "And what is that circular thing you are holding?"

"It's a pan, Malfoy."

"Ban?"

"No, a  _pan_."

"You done with that food, yet?!"

Potter froze at the unexpected bellow from the living room, and then replied, voice saturated with honey, "No, Uncle Vernon!"

"Then stop chattering with that blond freak and finish!"

Harry grumbled under his breath, shooting Draco a scathing glare. After a few minutes of verbally prodding the Git-Who-Lived, the Slytherin sat at the table, silently incensed at the gall of both Potter and the whale-like muggle. He was a Malfoy, dammit.

Breakfast was even tenser than yesterday's dinner, made more so by the fact that Potter was avoiding his gaze at all costs.

After that, Draco stayed upstairs for a good portion of the day, only coming downstairs to eat the delicious food that Potter cooked time and time, again.

Three days of this same routine, along with an unforeseen heat wave, and Draco had completed all of his summer work. Potions had been the easiest, even if he got more advanced work on the sly, and Herbology quickly followed.

Transfiguration was his weakest subject, by far. McGonagall, try as she might to not favour her House, did it anyway. It was harder to go to her for help with work than it was Professor Flitwick.

After struggling over the theory, Draco finished the morning by lying in bed, sprawled out gracefully over the covers.

Sleep came easily to him, even as sweltering as he was, and he lightly dozed for the better part of noon. Deciding to forego lunch, the Slytherin stayed in bed until he started to feel antsy.

Feeling in the mood for wandering about outdoors, Draco jumped out of the bed and looked for his shoes. Finding them inside one of his trunks, he put them on with quite a bit of force - certainly, more so than was required for such a menial task - and trudged out of the room, down the staircase, and sighed in relief when he was out of the stifling house.

The air was refreshing, if not tainted by the bitter smell of petrol. The blond strolled out of the house's front yard, and around the streets.

Masking his tension and how unsettled he was in such an odd setting, Draco focussed on putting one foot in front of the other.

Glancing around, he realized how dull the place he was currently staying at was. The only noticeable sounds were those of an untamed beast, and that came from the muggle transportation thingamajiggies. The birds were singing unknown melodies, and the occasional insect buzzed.

Not paying any specific attention to his surroundings, Draco was understandably surprised when he came upon a small playground. Grinning to himself, he remembered the one time he had visited, and subsequently played at, a muggle playground.

He had been visiting the Hollingberry clan. One of his playmates, when he had been younger, was their youngest daughter, Flora.

One day Flora's older sister, Jemima, had taken them to a playground, similar to this one. Unknowing of how his parents would take it, Draco had climbed up on one of the swings, and had been pushed back-and-forth.

He had promised to never tell his parents where he had been, with his cheeks flushed from the wind, dirt on his knees.

Revelling in nostalgia, Draco swung back and forth for a good half-hour. Casting another  _Tempus_ , he noticed it was well-past noon, and jumped off the swing.

Pleasantly cooled down from the activity, Draco turned around and hastened for the house.

When he got there, he noticed Potter working over some of the plants. Stopping a few feet away from the raven-haired teen, Draco observed him quietly.

Potter was sweating profusely and continually wiped at his brow. Draco cast a glance at the plants, and noticed various purples and oranges beneath the sun. A few moments later, and the other wizard stood up straight and stretched, grunting faintly at the kinks.

Draco's eyes certainly didn't lock onto the tanned flesh that was uncovered by the large shirt, not at all.

The blond then walked back into the house, and stayed upstairs for the majority of the evening.

Taking out his Herbology textbook for review, Draco read through it, and groaned in frustration. He would have to ask Potter about the flowers, and the blond teen didn't want to. Lying back on the bed, he closed his eyes, and his stomach growled. Just when he was contemplating going downstairs to eat, he heard a crash.

" _Boy_!"

Heart racing with adrenaline, Draco launched out of bed and opened the door. Tip-toing as silently as he could, the blond spied from the top of the stairs.

Potter seemed to have dropped a ceramic cup on the kitchen floor. His uncle was staring down at him; face purpled in rage, fists clenched white at his sides.

"How many times do I have to tell you to be careful?!"

"I'm sorry, Uncle Vernon!" Potter exclaimed, head ducked. "But Dudley pushed me!"

"Stop making excuses! Dudley did no such thing!"

"Of course he wouldn't..." Potter muttered sarcastically.

Draco knew what was going to happen the exact same moment Potter did. The fat, older man lifted up a curled fist, and the impact of the hit seemed to echo.

The angle was all wrong, so Draco wasn't able to see how hurt Potter was, but he knew it must've been bad. The faint cracking of bone and glass hadn't come from just anywhere.

He stood on indecision. Did he want to cross that line, and help Potter? Did he want to see his, once enemy, in such a vulnerable position? Or, did he want to leave him there, disregarding his humiliating condition and pain?

Hearing the Gryffindor's uncle laugh in merriment, then watching him walk to the living room... Draco stood up and crept down the stairs.

Potter was leaning on the wall, nursing his nose and right-cheek, where the fist had hit him. They were covered up as he stood, walking towards the sink and taps.

The blond aristocrat cleared his throat arrogantly, arms crossed, hip popped at the side.

Potter spun around, and then narrowed his emerald eyes at the Slytherin. "What do you want, Malfoy?" he hissed.

Beckoning the git forward, Draco expected him to walk closer. Potter merely looked at him as if he were stupid, dark eyebrow arched incredulously. Draco sneered at the other the teen. Walking closer to him, he stopped when they were a foot apart. Draco stuck out a hand, and wrenched Potter's own from his face.

"Oi!" He snapped, trying to force his hand back. "Let go of me!"

"Shut up, you dunderhead!" Draco scolded, in his best impression of Professor Snape. The effect was instantaneous, and slightly more comedic than when he had last used it on Crabbe. Potter's eyes went wide, and his jaw dropped. Then he sputtered indignantly.

Draco took out his wand and pointed it at Potter's nose, which was at an odd angle. " _Episkey_!"

Potter blinked at Draco owlishly, and then tentatively touched his nose.

" _Tergeo_!"

Potter looked good as new, besides the bruise on his cheek.

The blond then turned on his heel and bent down to pick up Potter's ruddy pair of glasses. Standing straight, he tapped on the bridge, " _Oculus Reparo_."

A burst of smoke and red light came out of his hawthorn wand, and the spectacles reassembled. He walked swiftly towards the, still dumbfounded, Gryffindor, and shoved the glasses into his hands. Not wanting to deal with any sort of thanks, he sped out of the room, ran up the stairs, and then slammed the door behind him.

'Why did I do that?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very sorry for the late update, and hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	5. Swings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long story short, I am sorry about not updating for the past month, or so. I just started my first year of high school when I stopped, and it i just unbelievable finding time to write when I have such mass amounts of homework. Urgh.

Several days later, Draco woke up after a night of restless dreams. To make matters worse, he was sweaty, and panting, and just feeling disgusting. Not only that, but he couldn't even remember what he had been dreaming about, just an icy, murky feeling.

Throwing the blankets off himself, he counted backwards in French, trying to wake up fully, before he slipped out of the suffocating room and took a, much needed, shower.

The teen stared up at the ceiling, and took to a familiar activity: wondering, once again, why he had acted the way he had, in the kitchen.

Malfoys didn't fix their enemy's noses.

Malfoys didn't fix their enemy's glasses.

Malfoys  _certainly_  didn't act as if they cared.

And Malfoys shouldn't  _ever_  flee in embarrassment.

But, of course, Draco had done his  _very best_  to break those simple behavioural rules. He could just imagine his father now, looking down at him with thinly-veiled disappointment lurking beneath his darker, grey eyes.

" _What have I told you about behaving in such a way that best befits a Malfoy, Draco? No wonder the Mudblood is able to best you in as simple a thing as grades."_

Those lectures and comments always left Draco with a bad taste in his mouth, and self-hatred gnawing at his chest. Malfoys don't cry, so… even if there was a peculiar tightening of his throat, and a burning behind his eyes, he never paid any heed to it.

Turning on to his side, the blond shook those morbid thoughts from his mind. It wouldn't do to dwell on the past; after all, Draco had done his very best, avoiding Potter at all costs. It never ceased to help that the other teen was always doing something for those despicable Muggles.

His thoughts quickly turned to his unkempt state, and the blond decided he'd had enough of feeling sweaty. He hopped out of the bed and gathered up his toiletries, tip-toeing out of the room. The snores of several Erumpents filled his ears, but he didn't bother trying to Silence the doors; for some reason, whenever he did so, the Charms broke. He simply shrugged and guessed it was because of how powerful the sounds were.

After the teen had entered the loo and had taken a very luxurious, not to mention  _long_ , shower, he headed back towards his temporary room to change into more appropriate clothes. Ones that weren't just a night shirt and boxers.

However, when he turned towards the room, he heard a scream, though muffled, fill the hallway. Turning his head, the blond found that, to his confusion, the pain-filled shriek was coming from the vicinity of Potter's own room.

Draco hesitated, torn between going back to his room to dress properly, or to see what was going on with the annoying bugger  _now_.

When he heard a sob come from inside the room, he groaned at his cruel fate. What had he done to deserve such a downright miserable summer?

Bracing himself, Draco entered Potter's room and… paused.

It was extraordinarily small; in fact, the guest room was  _easily_  double the size of the room alone. It was messy, with clothes and things strewn throughout the place. A small dresser stood next to Potter's bed, though it looked incredibly worn. Potter's owl's cage was in a corner near the windows, and the snowy-white bird had its head tucked underneath a wing.

The bed, itself, looked uncomfortable for the average twelve-year old, not to mention a fourteen-year old teenage boy. But there was Potter, clutching onto his sheets for dear-life, flat on his back, body twisting this way and that under and above the covers

Draco walked closer, slightly alarmed at the sweat dripping off his brow as he turned his face to the side, a whimper slipping out of his lips.

The blond felt totally out of his element. When his father had finally deemed to speak to Draco, at seven years of age… Well, he probably had a better grasp on emotions than he did now. The Malfoy Family Tutelage wasn't much of anything except for Pureblood Traditions, Rules of the Malfoys by Which the Heir Must Abide, et cetera.

So, being in a situation where he had to try and comfort someone made him more than slightly uncomfortable. Even now, Draco felt like hiding back underneath the musky-sheets of this Muggle home and forgetting he had ever seen the Boy-Who-Lived in such a vulnerable state.

Gritting his teeth, Draco placed a tentative hand over the raven-haired teen's shoulder and lightly shook him.

When that didn't rouse him, by any means, he put more force in the shake and grumbled, "Potter, wake up."

A vein in Draco's head was about to explode, due to how pissed off and uncomfortable the blond felt. Taking a deep breath, he continued his light shakes, until he snapped and just screamed, "Potter, you miserable excuse of a Saviour,  _wake the fuck up_!"

Potter automatically launched up and hit Draco's jaw. As shocked as the blond was, he felt tears of pain lurk at the corners of his eyes, and slapped the other boy's head.

"Ow!" Potter grunted, rubbing at the back of his sleep-dishevelled raven hair. He widened his emerald-eyes in bewilderment when he saw the blond Slytherin standing over his bed, jaw clutched in two hands. "What're you doing here, Malfoy?"

"Not getting thanked for my graciously given services," the teen grumbled, rubbing his jaw. He could taste the copper tang of blood on his tongue, and felt like striking the other boy again.

"What services? What are you even doing in my room?"

"I heard your pathetic arse screaming and crying from the hallway, and decided to wake you up. If I had known you would launch up like some sort of Muggle-spring, then I would've turned around to my room and let you suffer."

Potter stared at Draco, and then slowly nodded. "Thank you, Malfoy."

"Don't thank me. It's not my fault you're a barmy git."

"How come you always have the infuriating ability to do something helpful, and then make it nearly worthless with a simple sentence?"

"Well, nobody said Malfoys were good company, now did they?"

To Draco's consternation, Potter threw his head back and chuckled heartily.

"What's so funny?" he asked, mouth down-turned in a frown at the audacity of the bloody Gryffindor. When no answer seemed forthcoming, Draco turned around and made his way to the door.

"Wait, Malfoy," Potter said, scrambling out of his bed. He fell out on the floor of the room in an ungraceful heap, but sprung back up in order to grab hold of the other wizard's arm.

Draco shook his arm out of Potter's grasp and waited, brow arched in question.

Potter cleared his throat, fringe covering his eyes and grumbled, "I noticed you staring."

Draco grew alarmed and sputtered, "Excuse me?"

"At the garden," Potter answered, brows furrowed in determination, as if he hadn't heard Draco's defensive exclamation. "I just wanted to let you know that I can always tell you about the different types that I grow."

Draco shook his head, "No thank you, Potter. I'm fine just observing."

And it had been sort of a lie. Draco didn't want to learn from  _Potter_ , but he wasn't necessarily just fine with  _observing_. Muggles had the most boring lives, and the flaxen-haired aristocrat felt as if he was going to explode from just walking around, reading through his old textbooks, checking through his homework, and it even made him want to yawn just contemplating it.

It continued on for a few more moments, Potter trying to convince Draco to  _just go out and do something besides study_. This ended with a near argument, when Potter had had the nerve to even compare him to the Mudblood Granger. As if Draco would even stoop to her level, and he huffed.

"Fine, you insufferable prat."

Potter smiled smugly, and Draco felt the over-compelling urge to wipe the expression off of his face. Preferably with a fist. Yes, violence could be the answer for  _some things_ , especially when it was in response to something the Prat-Who-Loved said, or done. Bloody hell, his mere presence caused Draco to resort to Muggle violence.

When Draco finally left Potter's room a few minutes later, he felt the full weight of the next month take hold of him. Leaning back against the door, he sighed and went over his calming exercises.

Once he felt better able to control his emotions, the blond strode over to the guest room and rummaged through his clothes trunk for some decent attire for the current weather. After picking out a reasonably baggy outfit – unlike the terrible clothing that Potter felt the need to wear everywhere – he walked out of the house.

The neighbourhood was reasonably quiet, and Draco  _reluctantly_  decided he could jog around for hours, as long as the Muggles didn't decide to come out with their machines and make noise.

He found himself at the familiar structure of the playground, and seated himself in one of the swings, kicking off.

The wind beat against his sweat-slick cheeks, and he enjoyed the contrast between the cool air and his heated body. He was broken out of his activity when an irritatingly familiar voice said, "So, even a Malfoy can enjoy Muggle swings, huh?"

Snapping his head to the side, Draco scowled at Potter. The git was leaning against the side of one of the slides, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Go away, Potty," he sniffed, unhappy to see that he had lost his momentum due to the Gryffindor's arrival. Kicking off again, he resumed his previous task.

The sound of a chain clicking had Draco pausing again, turning to look at the source of the noise. Potter was just to his side, and he seemed to be withholding laughter.

"What?"

"Nothing," the teen said, with a note of strain in his voice. Draco could only wonder why he was suppressing so much laughter.

"Potter," he snapped, an eye brow arched in annoyance.

"It's just… seeing you on a swing is just… odd."

"Odd?"

Potter nodded his head, dark hair falling into his eyes. He brushed his fringe away with a nonchalant hand.

"And you came out here, disturbed my peaceful swing, and laughed because it was odd?"

He bobbed his head again.

"I swear to  _Salazar Slytherin himself_ , Potter, that if I wasn't on the opposite side of the Dark Lord, I would smash your face into one of those pole-things."

Potter eyed him for a second, and then stood up silently. Draco grew slightly nervous and said, "What are you doing?"

"Nothing."

"If you say, 'Nothing,' again, I will  _not_  be held responsible for my actions."

" _Relax_ , Malfoy."

That's when Draco felt warm pressure on his back, and was pushed forward. He instinctively held the chains steady, grip tight, and pushed down on the ground.

"Stop!"

"Malfoy, stop pushing back!"

"I'm not up for your games, Potter!"

"Shut up and  _calm the fuck down_!"

Draco grunted in frustration, relaxing his feet. "Fine, but if I get hurt…"

"You won't just as long as you trust me, even the slightest bit."

And Potter was just so annoying that Draco  _had_  to do it, if only to get the prat to just  _shut up_. He was  _definitely_  not doing it because the bloke sounded sad.

Nodding his head, Draco gulped rather thickly as he felt the pressure on his back return. Funnily, he felt dizziness in his head, one he didn't recognize. Once Potter pushed, Draco held onto the swing chains with a steel-grip, and then quickly realised he was going up higher than he originally was.

Breathing in deeply and letting it out, Draco was bewildered to find that he was completely relaxed. Giving up the control of the swing, he allowed his head to fall back a bit and enjoyed the cool breeze on his skin.

And he went higher and  _higher_ , and then it suddenly stopped.

Draco looked back, and saw Potter's pudgy cousin sneering at them.

"What do you want, Dudley?" Potter asked boredly.

"Mum and Dad want you to go and make breakfast. Now."

Potter grumbled under his breath and ran a hand through his hair in frustration, "Fine."

"So, Cedric's not your boyfriend?" the Muggle asked, smirking maliciously.

" _Shut up, Dudley_."

"Whatever," Dursley shrugged, walking off with his enormous hands shoved in his pockets. Potter was too busy cursing under his breath to realise that Draco had heard the entire conversation.

But, funnily enough, Draco couldn't bring himself to say anything about the information that had just been slipped to him. He could remember the waves of power that had crushed around him, and the rapid beat of his heart as Potter's emerald eyes glowed a lighter shade. He shuddered slightly at the memory, and jumped off of the swing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it :D


	6. Peculiarity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning(s): Cursing, child abuse

Grumbling as they made their way back towards the house, Draco ran a hand through his wayward strands of hair. _Bloody Potter, Bloody Dursleys, Bloody Dumbledore..._

The mental list continued on and on, each curse and person growing more and more creative. From house elves, to the centaurs lurking behind Hogwarts. Draco was positive that there was no use in knowing the imminent future as divined by the stars and planets alignments was, when they couldn't even tell the wizards that they lived near that, hey, that Dark Lord you were all certain was as good as gone? Well, the evil bastard had managed to stay alive throughout the past dozen years or so.

It took a few silent moments, where Potter even had the audacity to kick a stone along their path, before they found themselves facing the unremarkable door, on the unremarkable house, upon the unremarkable street, in the Merlin-forsaken neighbourhood. Who had even decided that this was a good idea? Heaving a great sigh, Draco turned his head and spied Potter's expressionless face. It was eerie, knowing that Draco may have seen a side of the teen he'd never known before this day: laughing with him, ribbing, and even vaguely happy to be within the blond's presence. Wrinkling his nose at his odd thoughts, Draco opened the door and stepped inside the connecting hallway.

"Good," the giant whale of a man seated at the table barked.

" _You,_ " Potter's eloquent aunt stated, eyes narrowed at the both of them as if they were some noisome creatures that had cloistered themselves within her home. Matching her gaze with his own, the woman flinched back slightly. Draco would've sneered at her weakness, if he had actually cared one way or another. Muggles weren't interesting.

As soon as he had left the hallway and headed for the staircase, Draco could hear Petunia scolding Potter, not even seconds after she had probably set her sights on him. Only Potter could get in trouble by just breathing.

Sighing, Draco climbed up the stairs. Before he could make it to the fifth step, however, he heard the unmistakable snickers of a pig at the foot of the staircase. Pausing, Draco turned to descend, waiting until the brute's laughter had grown into a fit. Draco brought his mouth close to his ear, before whispering, "Unless you would rather be skewered like the animal you so resemble, I suggest you go outside like a good boy and frolic in the bloody fields, or whatever the hell you Muggles do."

Dudley immediately yelped and sped for the doors, far too dramatic a sight for Draco's tastes. Even first-year Hufflepuffs didn't jump up quite as far as the teen had, not to mention the stupid shriek. Shaking his head, Draco turned and resumed his earlier task, not wanting to spend another second with Potter's piss-poor excuse for relatives.  _Father was wrong,_  Draco thought bitterly, ' _Potter's family life wasn't all sunshine and rainbows. It's a surprise the idiotic Gryffindor hadn't ended up brain-dead, from how much his relatives seemed to care for him.'_

As soon as Draco had made it to his designated room, the blond flung himself onto the bed, kicking his shoes off at the foot of the mattress. Flipping over onto his back, Draco felt his ire simmer down to a mere flame at the entire situation. It irked Draco, really. That this had all been going on without him knowing it, or even hearing rumours of it; Draco had been so sure that Potter was as spoiled a brat as his father described, as Snape had told him in the midst of lectures. It didn't seem fair that he'd been going along, all this time, on bad information.

Shaking the thoughts from his mind, he resolutely scolded himself for brooding back on events that he could never change, not that he would even if he could. The past was the past; he needed to live in the present and plan for the future. That was why he was here, anyhow: he had decided that his future was threatened. Shivering at the thought of those glowing eyes - had they really been glowing? - Draco turned over in the bed.

Minutes dragged by, until the house quieted down to near-stillness. Draco would've believed he'd been left alone within the Muggles' home, if he couldn't hear the distinct murmurs of Muggle technology below him, coupled with odd noises now and then. Growing restless, he tossed and turned on the bed, before sitting up, grudgingly.

After contemplating just what he could do with all the energy now at his beck and call, Draco set about tidying up his bed chambers. Several minutes later, as the blond usually didn't make much of a mess anyway, he stopped at his various trunks. Nodding to himself, Draco knelt at the head of the one in the centre and tapped his wand on all of them, muttering a quiet Alohomora before opening up the one in front of him.

After another several minutes of listlessly trying to assuage his boredom, and second chest through, Draco began to feel a distinct hopelessness in his task. ' _It figured_ ,' he thought to himself, setting aside yet another textbook and novel on the floor, that he hadn't packed a lot of things in the way of entertainment. Not only had he never even contemplated the actual resurrection of the Dark Lord, but in either case, family always came first. He hadn't thought of what he would need if, say, he had decided that he needed to change sides.

Just when he was going to give up all the rummaging as a bad job and stuff everything back into their previous resting places, Draco spied a pile of parchments at the very bottom of the chest he was looking through. Raising an eyebrow, he paused in his meanderings before picking up the miscellaneous group of discarded scraps.

It was hard to recall just when he had compiled such a large amount of parchments over the years, before he analysed a diagram on one such spare. Grinning to himself, he pored over the rest. Now, he remembered. The last few years, discounting his fiasco of a fourth-year, he'd always remembered to put down at least a few ideas, when they came to light, of spells or potions. He'd fancied himself the dream of becoming a Potions master, or even working with the  _Unspeakables_.

Grinning to himself, he read a few of his more wistful ideas, though a few seemed to focus especially hard on Potter. Well, if he wasn't in complete denial, Draco would say that it was more than a few, and more a disturbing amount; like he had an obsession over the stupid, mussed-haired git.

It was uncomfortable, knowing that Draco'd had such a fixation on the brunet downstairs, doing the bidding of three, measly bumbling buffoons, just a year or so before. Scowling at his own thoughts, he spied a series of sentences tucked in between two variations of first-year hexes: ' _Forgot to bring my homework for Transfigurations, again. That Remembral I had Father buy me doesn't seem to do much, rather just sits there with its stupid swirling colours. Maybe if I could create something that could help me remember what I forgot, rather than just tell me that I forgot something, I wouldn't have to run to the Slytherin dorms all that often.'_

Sitting back on his kneeling calves, Draco wondered how he could've forgotten such an important project. It was ironic, that he'd managed to forget something written about wanting to remember something else.

Taking out his Charms textbook, Draco reviewed a few of the pages within, trying to spark a creative nodal point for his distractedly written request to himself. As he grew more and more absorbed in his research, he felt a peculiar, itchy feeling envelop his waist. Flinching in discomfort, the blond shifted in his position, bringing himself to a more comfortable Indian cross.

He was just contemplating scratching it, just in case it wasn't anything but an itch, when the feeling suddenly fled as quickly as it had come. Shrugging off the initial itchiness, it was probably just a Muggle insect getting its way with his perfect skin, Draco scanned the text for a few minutes more.

A knock on the door, as well as Potter's aunt's grating voice, signalled it was time to adjourn for breakfast downstairs. Draco reluctantly put down his Charms textbook and bookmarked his place with his parchments.

Draco stood up and brushed his hands down the sides of his clothing, lingering at the spot where he'd felt the itchiness, before the voice called once again. Growling in distaste -  _does she even realise she squawks like a parrot?_  - Draco left the room, and headed straight for the dining room slash kitchen. Muggles lived in the smallest houses.

When Draco took his seat at the table, he allowed himself to become enveloped in the aromatic scents Potter had caused. It was nearly sinful, as good of a cook the brunet was, despite the scraps he dared call clothing, and his stupid, scruffy hair.

Practically salivating as the plates piled with food were placed on the table, Draco was startled when he felt Potter sit next to him. Raising an eyebrow in curiosity, Draco tried to meet the brunet's eyes, but Potter resolutely kept his head down, focussed on serving himself.

Shrugging, Draco delicately piled his plate up with enough food to fill himself adequately and nearly moaned at the taste. The house elves back home at the Manor were trained throughout the years, and only served specific meals at specific times. It'd been almost forever since Draco had had the privilege of a common, English breakfast.

It was slowly grating his already restless nerves when he realised the Muggles were expecting him to take out his wand and perform some great evil upon them. It would be a waste of Draco's time and magic to even think of doing so, and the Malfoy heir tried his best to ignore their stupid stares and enjoy his meal.

Leaning over slightly, Draco picked up a cup of juice and nearly met the gaze of Potter. The silly sod just averted his eyes almost immediately after, causing Draco to grow suspicious at his odd behaviour. Of course, Potter was perpetually weird and strange, as far as Draco was concerned, but this was a bit much even for him. He lingered on the meal for as long as humanely possible, until the Muggles had both left their dishes in the sink, before saying, "Potter."

Startled out his thoughts, Potter answered with a drawled, "Malfoy."

"You've managed to ruin what would've been an okay meal," Draco allowed the insult to roll of his tongue, though he found, to his growing horror, that he didn't really mean what he was saying. "Mind giving me a reason for it?"

"It's not really any of your business, Malfoy, now is it?"

Draco didn't even want to dignify that with a response. Settling back in his seat, he waited for the brunet to get up and start on the dishes, before sneaking behind him.

"I think it's my business if a Muggle lays a hand on a wizard."

Potter flinched, drying his hands off with a rag. "No one did anything. I merely fell. I'm clumsy."

"Clumsiness and Potter don't really quantify in my mind," Draco crossed his arms, leaning his back against the counter. "Now, do you want to try that again?"

When Potter merely started for the door, Draco dragged the stubborn moron up the steps to the bedroom.

"Now," Draco said when he had efficiently trapped Potter from the outside world, standing in front of the door. "Show me what the brute has done, now."

It took a few minutes of annoying prodding, as such was Draco's style, before Potter finally lifted up his face and showed a bandage on his cheek. Stepping in closer, Draco raised a hand, only to have it deterred as Potter flinched back instinctively.

"Calm down, you git," Draco muttered, fingering the bandage. "I'm trying to get a better look at what you're hiding."

After carefully peeling the covering away from the Gryffindor's face, Draco gently fingered the alarmingly red skin, covered in some sort of ointment to prevent scarring.

"Who did this to you?"

"Aunt Petunia," Potter muttered, arms crossed defensively over his chest. He looked almost as Draco felt: awkward and out of his comfort zone.

Replacing the bandage carefully, Draco realised just how close he had gotten to the other boy and stepped back slightly, clearing his throat.

"Why did you feel the need to hide it?"

A murmur was his only answer.

"Might wanna try that again this time, Potter," Draco drawled. "This time, loud enough so that a living being, rather than the collar of your disgustingly large shirt, can hear it."

"I said," Potter said, obnoxiously loud. Draco wrinkled his noise at the pitch of his voice. "That I found it humiliating."

Draco tilted his head to the side, weighing the admission in his mind, before nodding his head.

"Is it going to scar?"

The question seemed to surprise Potter as much as it did Draco. It was completely uncharacteristic of Draco, but he refused to show his discomfort at how normal it felt. As if it were completely okay for a Malfoy to ask the Boy Who Lived if he would be alright.

"I-it's never scarred before," Potter stuttered, sounding more the likeness of a Longbottom than the irritating Saviour he usually was. When Draco raised yet another eyebrow at him, Potter just glared at him before clearing his throat, shifting uncomfortably.

That itchy feeling from before rose once again, and Draco couldn't help but shift in place, as well. He curled his fingers into a fist behind his back, begging for the feeling to go fuck off to where it had earlier.

Potter's green eyes narrowed from behind his lenses - those glasses truly did make his irises seem a lot larger than they should - before asking, "What's wrong with you, now?"

Draco's mind raced before he flapped a hand and said, "It's just something to do with the blankets. They're a bit too itchy, and I guess they're affecting my poor, delicate skin."

It sounded stupid, even to Draco's ears.

Potter raised his own eyebrow, and Draco was starting to get really sick of this stupid face-dancing game. It was okay the first times they'd happened, but now it was getting really old, really quick. Thankfully, the teen left the room with not so much as a by your leave, and Draco rubbed at his pulsing side.

Lifting up the fabric of his own shirt, Draco spotted nothing different with it. There wasn't any raised skin, characteristic of a bite, nor any reddishness he'd associate with chafed skin. Trailing a finger atop the area, he didn't feel anything remarkable, and briefly wondered if he was losing the plot, being separated from all he knew and stuck within the Muggles' neighbourhood.

Sighing, Draco gazed up at the ceiling for a few seconds, taking a deep breath and calming his beating heart, before settling in front of his Charms textbook and searching for anything on mysterious itchy feelings.

After searching calmly, the Slytherin felt exasperatedly bored, and just flipped through large chunks of pages at once. Once he realised that he wouldn't be able to find anything, as irritated and restless as he was, Draco stood up and left the room, heading outside for another swing on the set.

And if he looked for Potter before leaving the front lawn, it was to Draco's discretion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has left kudos, comments,subscribed, and bookmarked :D


	7. As Others Feel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning(s): On-going child abuse, descriptions/depictions of gore and violence

It was one of those moments when Draco still wondered how he had managed to find himself in his current situation: hiding from his parents, and the Dark Lord, after having switched to fighting on the Light side of the war. The question, of course, just happened to have come up just when he was lying, in the most dignified manner possible befitting a wizard of his lineage, about on the floor of the room he was currently ensconced within. Leafing through several of his textbooks, compiled from over the years, wasn't the most entertaining activity in the wizarding world. Draco would rather sit down and make ickle bubbles with his wand, like he had all those years ago with his practise wand, rather than be as bored as he was. That thought, alone, emphasised his boredom.

Despite having been raised in idleness, the blond wasn't the most patient of people. He blamed it on his astrological sign more than anything else; Geminis weren't known for their patience and utmost pleasure in utter silence, after all. He liked to be entertained, to talk to people when he pleased, to be engaged in vivid conversations of interest... he didn't like to roll around on the dusty floor, like some sort of poorly trained Crup.

His concentration slipped from the book as the terrible itch that had been the focus of most of his time bloomed back to life. Draco suffered for a few seconds, to see if the damned sharp ache didn't go away on its own. With a dark scowl of self-loath, Draco eventually, and reluctantly, laid a hand on the area and patted it harshly. When that did nothing but make the itchiness worse, he succumbed to the need and raked his blunt nails over his clothing on the... whatever in Merlin's name it was. Taking the chance, he peeked at the area and found, to his disconcertion, that the skin was still as pale as ever.

If only he could figure out just what was the cause of the blasted infliction, he would at least be at peace with that. A mystery unsolved was never one he wanted weighing on his mind. He could recall a time, a few years ago, when he had arrived home at the Manor, and realised his father wasn't in the best of moods. He hadn't been able to sleep comfortably for days, until he finally got one of the house elves to confess to him the tale of Potter having managed to pull one from right under his father's nose.

Frowning to himself, Draco had admittedly felt a conflicting mixture of impressed, dumbfounded, and irate. It wasn't everyday a twelve-year old boy in Hogwarts tricked an adult of over thirty years to free an elf. It was no wonder the wards of the Manor were a bit weaker than they were; the loss of an elf was a piece of old, familial magic missing.

Draco made a slight noise when he was suddenly pulled out of his meanderings, nearly jumping out of his skin, when a sudden din from downstairs met his ears. Sniffing, he turned over on the floor, pillowing his head with his bare arms. Maybe, just maybe, if he paid no attention to whatever stupidity was occurring downstairs, it would go away.

No such luck.

With a groan, Draco stood up and brushed off his trousers and shirt, before tucking his wand into his holster. Running a hand through his hair before he left the room, Draco wondered just why he had to suffer through all of this.

When he arrived downstairs, he was curiously met with silence. Poking his head into the entrance to the kitchen, he realised no one was there. Turning, he walked down the halfway towards the living room. The room was just as plain as the rest of the house: white walls, plastic furniture, photos resting atop a coffee table, all facing towards the black picturebox that sat at the front of the room, for easy viewing.

Sitting directly in front of the noisy box was Potter's obese cousin, Dudley. He was whinging at his father about something, who was looming over a scowling Harry. An overturned bowl of something or other, probably porridge, lay on the floor near the couch's arm, a splatter of clumpy, white bits staining the tan, leather fabric.

"Pick it up," the older man huffed, eying the boy with a gaze filled with an emotion Draco couldn't quite place. He felt a sense of déjà vu creep up on him, and he wondered just where he had seen such an expression before.

"It was Dudley wh-"

"Dudley would never do something so stupid," Vernon growled, edging closer towards Harry. Though he held a good foot over the brunet, Harry merely looked bored beyond belief. Draco felt a rush of something with the likeness of pride fill his chest, and he felt like slapping himself. Pride? Over Potter? Just what was Muggle Land doing to him? "Now, pick this mess up. Useless idiot."

Potter's eyes flashed slightly, and Draco's hand loosened up the neck area of his tee shirt as much as he could.

And just when he was thinking about walking out of the room, Vernon lifted up a hand at Potter's defiance and flesh collided with flesh. Potter's head was turned to the side for a few shocked, silent seconds. It seemed as if the only sounds in the room were the ones coming from the picture box, and the sniggers coming from Potter's cousin. And just as suddenly, Draco recalled just where he had seen the same expression on Potter's uncle's face. It was the same one his father had worn when a house elf had failed to complete an order, one that Draco soon realised was near-impossible, and designed just so the elf would have no choice but to punish itself.

It was the look of superiority and disgust. The type that Draco had always been fearful his father might one day turn on him, as payment for all his failures over the years. The one his father probably had when he thought of Draco, now.

Lost in thought, Draco hadn't even realised Potter was on the floor, suffering from another harsh blow, before he launched into action.

After muttering an incantation beneath his breath, the temperature in the room noticeably lowered sharply. Draco dramatically sashayed towards the older man. The younger, round one paused abruptly in his laughter, eyes widening impossibly large when he realised who had entered. Doubling over, he coughed repeatedly after apparently choking on his spit from fear, and Draco would've laughed if he hadn't already nearly rolled his eyes in disgust at the show of extreme clumsiness.

"Get away from him," Draco's voice frigid. The older man paused before turning towards him.

"What?"

"I said to get away from him," Draco repeated, face the likeness of parchment as he twirled his wand nonchalantly in his left hand. Vernon immediately shrunk back from the obvious danger before standing taller.

"I know what you said about performing magic is utter rubbish," the man growled, his moustache puffing up like the fur on a cat. Despite his words, he momentarily cringed as Draco stopped his twirling and pointed his hawthorn wand at him. Clearing his threat, he continued, "Wizards aren't allowed to perform magic at home, no matter what."

"Ever wondered how your bollocks would look, turned inside out? How it would feel?" Draco calmly inquired, head tilted to the side. A few strands of corn silk drifted over his right eye. Vernon froze, hand still raised in midair, at the teen's tone, even more so than the words themselves. "Curiosity taught me that particular spell."

Vernon's voice cracked and wavered as he stumbled over his next words, "You can't. You'll get arrested."

"I can't? Well, you know what my own family taught me? Wonderful enchantments that are able to caught a man to feel the pain of a thousand nails piercing his skin, as if he were being crucified. Ones that warp the mind and cause one to become trapped within a land of their own creation, all fabricated, from the deep, dark recesses of their mind. Can you even begin to contemplate being forced to endure hours of torture, layer by layer of skin being ripped and torn from your arms, legs, chest... seemingly never-ending? Or every single hair on your body being set on fire, never burning out?"

Draco quirked an eyebrow, caressing his hawthorn wand affectionately, in much the same fashion as his Aunt Bella.

"Do you really want to try and tell me what I can and cannot do?" Draco forced his voice to turn nearly giddy from joy, though he doubted if the bloody fool would ever notice the strain in the action. Draco didn't think he could stomach performing such torturous, malicious deeds upon anyone, no matter their evils.

He could be joyful, though, when Vernon whitened and stumbled back, before running out of the room, heading straight upstairs. Probably to go shit his pants.

When Draco glanced to his right, Dudley had already left. And he when looked back at Potter, the brunet's eyes were smouldering slightly. Clearing his throat, and nostrils flaring, Draco stepped closer to the other teen and bent his knees, reaching out a hand to the afflicted area on his face. There was a fine, pinkish hue to his skin, where Dursley's hand had stroked Potter's cheek. Near that area was the bandage that covered the side of his face, and Draco winced in empathy. He had no idea if the burn still hurt, and hoped the slap didn't further irritate a wound that was still healing.

"Did he get you anywhere else?" Draco questioned, looking over the brunet's form for any other sign of injury.

"He kicked me on my leg," Potter murmured, eyes to the floor. When Draco stood up and moved to give Potter a hand up, he surprisingly acquiesced. Draco could help but be worried that the teen was in a lot more pain than he let on.

He guided Potter to the kitchen table and had him roll up the legs of his trousers. A light bruise covered his shin and looked as if it would be painful for a good while, but the giant lump had managed to not do much damage to that particular area. Right when Draco was replacing the fabric to its original length, he heard Potter mutter something under his breath.

When he glanced up, the Gryffindor had his head turned to the side, a hand cupping his chin and mouth.

"What was that?"

"I'm sorry."

Draco was utterly bewildered.

"What for?"

"For bringing you into my problems? For letting you see things you probably didn't want to see? For making you sympathise with me? For being pathetic?" Potter's rush of answers only served to further puzzle Draco.

"Why would you feel the need to apologise for things that you can't control? If anything, I," Draco gulped, but shut his eyes and gripped the fabric of his own trousers. "I should be the one apologising for all the things I had done to you, borne from assumptions. It seems my father and Professor Snape were both just hateful, and a lot of the things they spout about you, in particular, weren't in the least correct. All the shit I put you through, on top of the shit that was already happening to you..."

Draco trailed off mornfully, gritting his teeth in anger. Several seconds passed, and just when Draco thought Potter was about to finally say something in reply, Petunia entered the house, sporting a few bags of groceries with her. Placing a few of them on the floor, she called for someone to help her.

Potter was up at the speed of light, or what seemed it, so fast he was gone from Draco and their uncomfortable conversation. Draco couldn't help but exhale a sigh of relief.

"Oh, Boy," Petunia gave him a suspicious glare, which smoothed into surprise when Potter walked out the door, and came back seconds later with a few of the bags from the trunk of the machine that still ran outside.

Draco stood up and leaned against the threshold of the connecting doorway, an assessing and thoughtful spark to his eyes as he stared at Petunia. The woman stared right back for a few seconds, before fidgeting and picking up the bags she had left next to her.

"I was wondering," Draco started, startling the woman from the silence that had taken hold of the household as she walked past him. The picturebox in the living room had been turned off sometime in the middle of Draco's threats to Vernon's health, and he hadn't even noticed himself. "How you figure into all this."

She paused in her unpacking of the bags, hands leaning her weight on the table, before she sighed and shook her head, putting a fresh carton of milk in the cold-box.

"I have no idea at this point," she muttered. She turned to cast her own assessing gaze on Draco's being, though he didn't feel the need to be as uncomfortable as she had under his. He wasn't the one in the wrong, after all.

"It's been like this," she waved a hand in a random motion, as if trying to encase the entirety of the house in her meaning. "For so many years; it's sort of routine-ish by now."

"Routine to have an orphaned child within your household, and to work them to the bone? Guilt-tripping them into thinking it's alright?"

"Guilt-tripping?"

"I made that assumption, myself. Potter did like to go down without a fight, as stupidly stubborn as he is, and it seemed to be the most logical explanation, once I get passed all my own prejudices towards him. In any case, have you ever even tried to get along with him?"

Petunia opened her mouth, as if she were about to speak, before shutting it with an audible noise. She wrapped her arms around herself, staring at the wood of the table before answering, "I never tried. And I still don't think I ever will."

"You should," Draco shrugged, before turning and heading for the staircase. "You have the chance. Take it while you can, before things get any worse."

When Draco found himself within the room, alone and without a single Muggle or pesky Potter in sight, he allowed his defences to crumble and likewise did so on the floor, sliding his down until he was sitting cross-legged, back leaning against the door in his solitude. It seemed, no matter what happened, Potter was never to be liked by his relatives.

For that matter, why did Boy Wonder even stay with them? He has plenty of people to depend on, by now, and he shouldn't need to stay with people who didn't feel the need to protect him, or even care for him. There must be more to the entire picture than Draco was getting, and he felt that same powerful curiosity and need to solve the problem take hold of him. Merlin, he needed to know. More. About Potter, and his living situation, and the way he thought, and...

That damned itch came back like an inferno, blazing and fiery, a pain brought with it. A pain he hadn't ever felt until now. Draco clutched at his hip, and took deep breaths in and out, refusing to allow something so small and circumstantial ruin his terrible summer ever the more. But feeling pulsed and throbbed under and on his skin, and Draco finally allowed his hand to caress the area without the blockage of clothing.

A weird, soothing warmth met his hand, and he felt a wave of dizziness take hold of him. He suddenly never wanted to let go of his hip, and he felt his grip tighten, until he realised he was going to inflict bruises on himself. Shaking his head to clear his mind, he waited a few seconds before reluctantly releasing his side. The itchiness was no longer there, and Draco felt a faint fear wrack his frame. Whatever was going on, it was a lot more serious than a simple insect bite that never manifested physically.

And it had something to do with Potter. Draco knew it in his gut, and even though he'd never believed in an impulse based on pure feeling before, he had an inclination to believe it, in this case.

While contemplating whether to go downstairs and search for Potter, the decision was taken out of his hands when a knock conveniently resounded behind him. He froze before clearing his throat and answering, "Yes?"

"Malfoy?" It was Potter. Draco didn't know whether to curse him, or kiss him. He raised his eyebrows at his own thoughts, before backing away from the door and opening it when he was standing.

The git pushed his way into his room, and Draco couldn't help the annoyance that caused him.

"Okay, just come in."

Potter was sitting on his bed when he closed the door and turned, and Draco folded his arms as he tried to examine the brunet's face without making it look like he was examining his face. He realised he had failed in his deception when Potter raised his own eyebrows at him in surprise.

"I'm fine," his lips twitched upwards, and Draco had the weirdest desire to see him smile again. When he shook his head, Potter gave him a confused look before plunging on again. "Anyway..."

Minutes seemed to pass. The brunet bit his lip awkwardly, head ducked so that his fringe covered a substantial amount of his face.

Sighing and pinching his nose, Draco said, "So, I have this itch..."

Potter's head came up so fast, Draco had to suppress a wince.

"An itch?"

"Yes, Potter, an itch," Draco felt his lips purse, and allowed the pout to stay affixed upon his face. Potter kept silent.

"It's an odd feeling I've never experience before," Draco turned his head to the side, staring out the window towards the aqua-blue sky, the clouds slowly shifting out of view every few seconds. "And it's not like one you get from dragonpox and the like. No, there are no markings of a reason for the itch, and it feels... odd to the touch."

"Odd?" Potter echoed.

"Warmth and a pulsing. I don't understand what's going on, and I'm frankly... rather confused," Draco admitted, not letting on that that puzzlement and bewilderment had also given into fear, as time passed and no answer seemed forthcoming from some sort of mysterious source, or blast from the past.

When he finally cast a glance in Potter's direction, the brunet was staring fixedly at his hands, twiddling his thumbs. When he spoke up again, Draco realised it was just the teen's habit for thinking.

Oddly pleased at his discovery of a Potter habit, Draco nearly missed the brunet's next words.

"-hould probably see it then, if it's bothering you that much."

Draco clutched at his side in impulse before exhaling deeply, and walking towards Potter. He felt an odd embarrassment pinken his cheeks and the beat of his heart quicken as he lifted up the side of his shirt and lowered the waistband of his trousers and pants.

Biting his lip, he stared straight ahead at the painting above his bed. It was a landscape portrait done in water colours of a forest clearing and waterfall. A single doe and fawn stood in the background, distinct among the dark shades of green of the grass and bushes.

He startled when Potter's sudden intake of breath met his ears.

"What is it?"

"I thought you said there wasn't a mark of any kind," Potter stated slowly, meeting Draco's eyes when the blond glanced down in confusion.

"Because there isn't."

"But there is."

Draco let out an exasperated groan, "Potter, I was looking at it before you came into the room, when a sudden fervour to itch caused me to glance down. No, there is nothing there except pale skin."

Draco lifted his shift a bit more and took a look for himself. No markings, no trace of anything; just pale skin.

"There's nothing there."

Potter's eyebrows furrowed. "But there's one right here," and the finger he was using to point at Draco's hip accidentally scraped his skin. Draco subsequently raised his head, letting out a low groan at the touch.

The feeling of Potter's finger touching the place he'd been suffering from had caused a shiver to wrack Draco's frame, and a sudden burst of warmth and clarity and desire filled his being. He felt his magic flare up, and took several deep breaths to resettle himself, and then scrambled to fix his clothing back in place, willing a blush down with sheer force.

When he met Potter's gaze again, he nearly gasped at the darkening of his eyes. What used to be comparable to emeralds now looked to be on the verge of the bushes in the painting above his head, dark and inviting.

After a few silent moments, Draco finally cleared his threat and took a look at the itchy area.

What used to be merely pale skin seconds before now held a single rune. Squinting, Draco's mind finally made sense of it.

"Empathy," he pronounced. Meeting Potter's gaze again, which was unfortunately back to normal, Draco repeated, "This wasn't here before. But it's a rune that reads 'empathy', all the same.

"Whatever you did, Potter, fix it."

Potter instantly sat up. "What do you mean, 'What I did'? I didn't do anything!"

"Well, there must be a reason I've suddenly have something tattooed on my skin. And while I know it wasn't by your own hand, it was obviously something you unconsciously did  _to_  me."

"If I did do something, which I'm not saying I did," Potter quickly added before Draco could open his mouth to refute that statement. "I don't know what happened. Hell, I've never seen a rune before in my life."

A frustrated noise escaped Draco's throat as he glanced back down at his previously flawless skin, patting the area with his hand once. The itchiness or warmth or burst of emotion never came back, and Draco was reluctantly pleased to note that, even if Potter had caused the seemingly-permanent disfiguration, he'd also had a hand in halting any further discomfort.

Huffing, Draco pursed his lips again before stating, "Maybe I'm allergic to you?"

That startled a laugh out of Potter that Draco hadn't been expecting. He felt a surge of pride in himself - for being a comic genius, of course.

"Allergic? To me?"

"Yes," Draco nodded his head gravely. "It's the only way I could suddenly be itching after being in such close quarters with you for so long, notwithstanding Potions or Quidditch."

Potter rolled his eyes. "Sounds like you've lost your head."

"I assure you, my head is perfectly poised and balanced on my neck and by my shoulders."

"This conversation is weird," Potter shook his head and ran a hand through his hair, before standing up. "And I have to go weed the garden. Let me know if you come up with any other wacky theories."

"But of course," Draco murmured, hands on his hips, backing up a few steps to give Potter room to leave. "It's but my day job. But seriously? Go. I want to be alone, now."

"You're such a git," Potter shook his head again before he left the room.

Draco collapsed on the bed on his back, tracing a hand over his hip.

' _Just where did you come from_?' he asked himself, before turning over and closing his eyes for a much-needed nap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has commented, left Kudos, subscribed, and bookmarked :3 It makes li'l ol' me just the happiest flower of all the field!
> 
> Both Draco and Harry seem like they need hugs. Leave a comment with your huggles?
> 
> *is shamelessly fishing*


	8. To Give and to Gain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning(s): Descriptions of violence, cursing

It first started with emotions, darkness creeping around the edges of his sharp vision: intensity, fear, rage, alarm. Right after came the sensations: crying and tears, tears trailing down cheeks just to fall into a dark, deep, dank abyss below. A rough hand began trailing down flesh, caressing his wet cheeks in a gesture of faux-comfort. And then came the sounds. He could hear a hoarse voice in the distance, seeming to echo, commanding its servants to do as it bid. And then there was an ominous, venomous, green colour zapping past. He felt and saw the ground meet him, a solid mass fly from his face as his unfocussed eyes peered about.

And then all he felt was pain.  _Pain_.  ** _PAIN_**.

Startled, Draco launched up from his bed, panting breaths as loud in his ears as his racing heartbeat. He could still recall the remnants of the bad dream, not quite a nightmare. It seemed to cling to the edges of his mind with all its might before most of it disappeared altogether. Draco couldn't remember the last time he had had a dream strike enough fear into his being to wake him up. And even then, when he had nightmares, they almost certainly hadn't been nearly as violent or frightening as this one had been.

Taking in shaky breath after shaky breath, Draco finally felt himself grow calmly disengaged from the situation. With the nightmare no longer there to hang about and taunt him, therein lied the ability for Draco to examine and reexamine the experience. Nightmares and dreams were the thoughts, feelings, and experiences of a person, all combined in a hodgepodge mixture. They helped a person to face something, or just to bring up their greatest fears and moments of weakness. Draco knew for a fact that he hadn't ever experienced such fear and helpless and anger in his entire life, as far as he knew.

Swallowing, Draco belatedly realised he was feeling rather parched. Despite how comfortable he felt in the bed, he had been all wrapped up in the blankets with the pillow supporting his head in the most wonderful way before he'd sat up, he also knew that his need for water would eventually need to be satiated. Reluctantly, he threw the covers off and dragged himself off the bed, toes curling into the, thankfully carpeted, flooring beneath his feet. When he got to the door, however, he felt a wave of some sort of... peculiar emotion slide down his spine. Shivering at the unfamiliar, and frankly disturbing, sensation, Draco opened the door and stepped into the hallway.

As he walked towards the staircase, the ominous feeling grew and grew, until he couldn't help but turn around. Seeing nothing behind him, he felt that familiar sensation of  _run run run go don't get closer_  come over him. Frowning, the feeling seemed to lessen as seconds passed without anything untoward jumping out of the shadowy corners and moonlit sections of the floor and walls,

But then the sensation changed into one of sadness and helplessness, and Draco heard a voice say, ' _Please, no, don't go, help_.' Blinking in surprise, he recognised the voice as one belonging to Harry Potter, and found himself in front of the other teen's room door in just a matter of seconds. Knocking tentatively at the door, he called out, "Potter?"

No sound reached his ears.

Frowning again, Draco steeled himself for some sort of truly monstrous sight and turned the doorknob. Peeking his head into the room, he was greeted with... nothing in particular. Just the same old owl cage, though empty of its usual resident, several miscellaneous objects strewn across the floor, a bookshelf half-filled with knick-knacks and other memorabilia, a Hogwarts trunk, and a lone boy twisting in his sheets on the bed. Raising an eyebrow in apprehension, Draco stepped within the room and closed the door behind him, striding in closer.

Potter was in a similar position as the last time Draco had walked into his room in the middle of the night: whimpering, face tensed in an expression reminiscent of pain and fear, one leg hanging off the bed, the other covered in a thin blanket, his hand clutching onto a sheet, as if clinging to it for reassurance.

Draco really had no idea how to react this time, but decided he might as well try to wake the brunet up from whatever horrors had taken hold of him whilst deep in slumber, like he had before. As he shook Potter's shoulder, he warily watched the teen's hands in case they decided to rise and strike at him again, in his sleep.

After several seconds of futile shaking, a frustrated Draco finally lost what little patience he held and yelled, "Potter, you moron, wake up!"

When even that didn't work, Draco groaned and allowed his hand to trail down from one shoulder to the next. At the accidental brush of his hand on the teen's pale skin, unveiled from his tee shirt, Potter immediately stilled and launched up from his bed, nearly head-butting Draco in the jaw. Cursing his unfortunate luck, Draco backed away with his arms crossed and a scowl fixed upon his face.

"M-malfoy?" Potter asked, squinting into the darkness after he'd regained some of his bearings, breathing harsh and rapid. Draco glanced behind himself and picked up Potter's spectacles, handing them to the teen. After Potter had replaced his glasses on his face, Draco pointedly stared at him. Frowning, Potter questioned, "What?"

"You really have this bad habit of nearly knocking the person who's trying to wake you up unconscious."

"Well, I'm sorry?" Potter asked, his breathing nearly at a normal rate, the apology more a question than anything else. "What are you doing in my room, anyway?"

"I have absolutely no idea," Draco rolled his eyes. Bending over slightly, he placed a hand on the bed and said, "Budge over, will you?"

Potter stuttered in disbelief and confusion, scooting over to give the blond some room on the bed. Once Draco had curled up on the bed in a comfortable position, he looked at Potter as if he had no idea why he was there with him and said, "Well... do you want to talk about it?"

"Malfoy, can you not confuse me so early in the morning? I mean, it's the middle of the bloody night, for Christ's sake."

"I have no idea who this 'Christ' is, but I'm certainly not doing it for his sake," Draco began, rolling his eyes at the snort Potter let loose. "Now, I know that it's much easier to talk about the nightmare after you've had it. So, spill."

Potter gave Draco a wary look at his offer, which Draco tried to copy exactly. Of course, that immediately led to Potter sending him the most befuddled expression, and Draco struggled to maintain a poker face. For some reason, though, he found what they were doing to be, at the moment, rather hilarious

Taking a deep breath without making it seem like he was taking a deep breath wasn't even the hardest thing Draco had ever accomplished before in his life, so doing it should've been an easy feat. But Potter was still looking so fucking confused, and he felt a chuckle escape.

And at the sight of Potter's confused face turning into a scowl befitting someone much younger than him, Draco continued to laugh. This eventually snowballed into Potter being thoroughly coaxed into laughing, and both teens were crying with laughter in a matter of minutes.

Sucking in deep breaths, Draco finally managed to calm down significantly, and wiped at his eyes, an odd giggle escaping every now and then. Potter bit his lip and shook his head.

"Okay, okay," he called out, in a placating manner. Draco glanced at him. After a few seconds, their expressions were equally as sombre as the other, and Potter averted his gaze. "I'll tell you about it."

Draco blinked once, twice, thrice, and then bobbed his head in disbelief. He hadn't known what to expect when he'd offered Potter what he had, but it definitely wasn't this.

Breathing in deeply, Potter's hands curled up into tight fists before he relaxed them at his sides and glanced up at Draco. Draco felt slightly dazed from the weight of the determination on Potter's face, along with the locked jaw, and suddenly wondered if it was as warm in the room for Potter as it was for him. Gulping, Draco waved a hand and said, in the most nonchalant manner he could accomplish at that moment, "Go on, you."

"Well," Potter began simply, wringing his hands in his lap, eyes looking over Draco's head to gaze at some corner of the room. "It always starts the same: C-Cedric and I take the TriWizard Cup at the same time, and then we're portkeyed to this... this graveyard."

Draco nodded his head.

"We're on the ground, and there's this weird, smoky mist or fog surrounding us. My scar does to throb and burn, and then I can hear Voldemort's voice saying, 'Kill the spare,' and there's a sudden flash of green light. Cedric's limp, now, eyes wide open with fear. And I'm shaken and pissed and so... so angry at myself, for even offering to share the prize with him. For letting him come with me. For not being bloody selfish. For the entire situation. At Voldemort for continuing to hunt me down for something I had no control over when I was just over a year old.

"And then the dreams tend to diverge from there. Sometimes, I won't really see anything for sometime and then, after a while, it's all blurred vision and sounds and ghostly sensations. Other times, I can see Voldemort while he's smugly taunting me, telling me to get up and fight him, but I can't hear him well. There are these... these echoes of screams distorting his words, and I can hear his Death Eaters howling in laughter like the dogs they are," Draco flinched at this, but Potter was too lost in his thoughts to notice. "And then the one I had tonight was just emotions. I could feel myself crying at one point, and Voldemort's hand touching my cheek to wipe away the tears, and I feel this sudden happiness and exuberance and I'm excited and blood-thirsty, glad that Cedric is dead, and then I..."

Harry paused there, and Draco had no idea what to do next. Should he pat him on the back, embrace him awkwardly, touch his hand? But then Harry stared straight at Draco with these eyes full of pain, wet with emotion, and he said calmly, "I'm looking at myself."

Draco stared, and Harry was still staring right back, and neither one was moving to do anything but simply look. Clearing his throat, Draco was the one to finally glance away, and he got the feeling he'd lost some sort of important test, but he had no idea what it could possibly have been or why the feeling was even there.

"I-I see," Draco uncharacteristically stuttered, trying to fill in the silence that lay between the two of them. Glancing back, he reached out a hand slowly and tentatively gripped Harry's shoulder, fingers entangling slightly in hair evocative of the darkness and softness of a raven's feathers. "I have absolutely no idea what to say to that, just: you're Harry Potter. You're the insufferable git I've spent the better part of our Hogwarts years playing cruel jokes on and mocking and taunting just to annoy and piss you off. You're too bloody noble for your own good. There is absolutely no way, in my mind, that you would ever find joy in killing or maiming or torturing any living being."

Harry gave Draco this really weird, soft look and Draco felt the need to clear his throat again, swallowing thickly at the unfamiliar emotion. Conveniently, he suddenly remembered why he had left his room in the first place: dehydration.

Getting off the bed with a creak, Draco headed for the door. Before he had managed to taken a step away from the bed, however, he felt a warm hand touch his, and a spark of something, a tingling sensation, where their flesh met.

When Draco peered back, Harry was biting his lip again, chewing on it in thought.

"Yes?" Draco questioned pointedly, getting restless with the need to escape all the unfamiliar feelings and emotions that had been invading him for the past half-hour or so.

Harry finally looked up, at long last, and said, "Thank you," solemnity coating his words.

Draco couldn't find it in him to snark back with something like, "You better be thanking me," or anything equally as lame, at the teen's words. Nodding his head in acknowledgment, he muttered a phrase that could've been a, "You're welcome," if one were to strain their hearing.

Once outside the room, Draco carefully leant back on the door and wondered just what was going on with him. Placing a hand on his hammering heart, he shook his head in exasperation with himself and walked down the stairs in search of a glass of water.

He never once tried to overanalyse the peculiar throb in his right hip.

Later that same morning, after retiring to his assigned room for the duration of the morning, Draco was awoken from his sleep by a rough shove to his shoulder.

Wincing, he immediately looked to the direction in which the shove was sent from, but met nothing but air. Frowning, he rubbed his aching shoulder and fell off the bed when another push sent him to the floor.

'Ow,' he thought dumbly, still mentally bleary from sleep. Sitting up, and now trying to ignore the pronounced throbbing from his hip, side, arm, and shoulder, Draco narrowed his eyes, trying the best he could to identify some invisible adversary.

But, alas, there was no one there in his room. And it certainly hadn't felt like he was dreaming, especially after he'd fallen off the bed. An alarm abruptly sheathed its claws in him, after a few seconds of silent contemplation, and before he knew it, he found himself outside Potter's room for the second time that day.

Wand drawn, Draco opened the door and slammed it into the wall. Harry's poor excuse of a cousin was looming over him, left meaty fist clenched, the other pulling the brunet up by his shirt collar.

"Oi," Draco called out. Dudley immediately froze, as if the idiot hadn't expected Draco would wake up and hear the noise from across the corridor - which, he hadn't, not really - and investigate it further. "Get your hands off of him you damned, dirty muggle."

Dudley stood up slowly and carefully, backing up from Harry and crashing into the dresser without even the utterance of a grunt of discomfort.

Wand still upraised in a gesture of intimidation and promise, Draco trudged towards Harry's closet and pointed his head in the direction of the door. Without so much as a glance back at Harry, the teen stumbled out of the room faster than Draco thought should be possible for someone of his weight.

Sighing in frustration at the stupidity of Harry's relatives, Draco shoved his wand in his front trousers pocket and ran a hand through his sleep-mussed hair, not even bothering to care how he must look in front of his former-rival.

Blinking towards the wall, Draco paused in his ministrations and wondered just when Harry had stopped being his rival in his short stay at the Dursleys' residence.

And for that matter, as cliché as it sounded, even to Draco, when had Potter suddenly stopped being Potter, but instead was Harry? He briefly twisted the thought this way and that, trying to figure out when something so dangerous had happened, when he was unfortunately interrupted by Harry dropping on his bed with an audible thump.

"Ow," he exaggeratedly called out, hand clutching his side in a show of pain.

"Why was he even in your room?"

"Hell if I know," Harry grimaced, expression twisting as he glared at the door, as if the giant lump was still standing there. "He just came in and started ranting and raving about how Uncle Vernon was expecting him to do his share of the housework because Aunt Petunia caught a cold."

"Does he think you have something to do with it?" Draco asked incredulously, falling onto his back on the bed casually. Draco refused to explain himself when Harry raised an eyebrow at him in question. He was sore. He was tired. He would damn well rest when he felt the need to, thank you very much. He'd certainly done more than his share of good deeds for the entirety of the week.

"I reckon he does, yeah," Harry shook his head. "And he definitely made his displeasure more than clear enough."

"Lemme see," Draco groaned, reluctantly sitting up on the bed and scooting back until his bum met the pillow.

It goes to show how normal this abnormality had come to the both of them when Harry merely grumbled his distaste before twisting to the side and lifting up his tee shirt.

Ducking his head, Draco brushed a few strands of his flaxen hair away from his line of sight before staring at Harry's side in vague distaste. And peeking out from the waistband of his trousers, besides the slightly reddened flesh was, of course, a rune.

"Potter," Draco said slowly. Harry hummed his acknowledgement. "Did you know you had a rune practically tattooed on your right hip?"

Harry made some sort of strangled noise. Draco raised his head in question, and Harry just turned his head to the side, teeth gritted.

"Well?" Draco drawled, sitting back up, arms crossed in front of his chest.

"I noticed it this morning, after you had woken me up from my nightmare."

"And you never thought to mention it to me?"

"I thought I was imagining it!" Harry grumbled in protest, shirt still held up in his hand.

Frowning in thought, Draco stared up at the ceiling and tried to rearrange and put the pieces together of just what was going on.

"How is it that, when I got the rune, you were the only one who could see it, but when you got the rune, you could immediately identify it?"

Harry shrugged. "I don't even know what any of this means."

Draco held out a hand in question towards Harry's hip, and Harry rolled his eyes before reluctantly bobbing his head in agreement.

Hand trailing down the brunet's side, Draco figured he might as well kill two birds with one stone. When Harry shivered at the contact, he had to bite back a wolfish grin. Now that that was settled...

Draco tugged down Harry's waistband without warning and touched the rune with his fingertips.

A warmth quite similar to the first one seemed to swoop through Draco. Gritting his teeth at the rapidity of his growing arousal, he stared down at the previously blurry rune and concentrated on translating it.

"Trust," Draco shook his head, backing up from Harry as much as he could possibly get away with without seeming overly suspicious. Harry subsequently shoved his shirt down and settled down in a cross-legged position, shirt and hands concealing what Draco weirdly hoped to be some sort of indication of interest.

"Trust?" Harry asked. It was unfair that Draco was left nearly panting - though, Malfoys don't ever pant, they release breath at a laboured and rapid pace - and Harry looked as if he hadn't felt anything out of sorts, this time around. "Why sympathy and trust?"

"It doesn't make much sense to me, either, Potter," Draco lay back on the bed, arms crossed behind his head. "And none of the books I brought with me from school have any information on runes suddenly appearing on sk..."

Draco launched up from the bed, and shook his head in disbelief.

No, it wasn't real. It wasn't happening. This shite doesn't happen to a Malfoy and a Potter. It just... doesn't.

"Malfoy?" Harry inquired in alarm, hand gripping his shoulder. Flinching back from the contact, Draco met Harry's hurt gaze and settled down, fighting his instinct to flee. "What is it?"

Draco merely shook his head again, hands coming up to cradle his face in sweet, blissful darkness.

"OY!" Harry exclaimed, forcing Draco's hands down with surprising strength and virtually spinning the blond around until their gazes mock. Draco shivered at the depths of emotion lurking within the forests of Harry's irises, and almost didn't hear what the brunet said next.

"You're really freaking me out. Just tell me!"

"A magical bond," Draco said.

"Huh?"

"With the amount of contact we've shared in the past month or so, along with the abuse," Draco pointedly ignored Harry's scoff at the word. "You've suffered through, along with the sensations and the sharing of dreams I believe is happening, as well as the runes suddenly appearing... it's only right to assume it's some sort of magical bond born of unusual circumstances."

When he finally focussed his eyes on Harry's face, the brunet was pale at the seemingly detached tone Draco had taken to in his near-panic.

"You mean to tell me that... we're bonded somehow?"

"It's nothing like a marriage bond, if that's the direction your mind is heading," Draco scrunched his eyebrows in frustration. "Of course, I also have no idea what this thing between us is."

"Thing between us..." Harry trailed of, an eyebrow raised. Realising that what he'd said could come off as some sort of double entendre, Draco blushed brightly and raised his hands, waving them about.

"No, nothing like that, I mean, yes, like that, but that's not how I meant for it to come out."

"Malfoy," Harry stated. Draco stopped and looked back at him. Harry was beaming in amusement. "You're acting completely out of character."

Clearing his throat, Draco turned to the side and crossed his arms.

"Well, anyway," he continued. "I should be able to do more research on what is, apparently, our bond once we return to Hogwarts."

"Yeah, maybe," Harry shrugged. "Sirius said he would be picking me up just before my birthday, though."

"I gather he would be taking you some sort of super-secret house for the Moste Noble and Bravest of Houses that even the Great Harry Potter isn't privy to, then?"

"I can practically hear the capitals used in that entire sentence," Harry complained in a low grumble. "And it's not like he's being mysterious for no good reason."

Tossing his head back in laughter, Draco shook his head; though, he was calculating the odd route his life had gone. Not anything like he'd expected when Dumbledore had accepted his request for Sanctuary.

And despite all the shit he'd been through for the past year, mostly of his own doing, Draco could confidently say that it was much more than he thought he would have.

So, for now, he sat back and joked with his former-adversary, and tried not to think about what he'd abandoned.


	9. Courageous Cowardice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feelings are felt, and Draco is buggered sideways by Her Bitchiness, Karma, herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning(s): Descriptions of violence, cursing, and very mild sexual content

It felt like weeks had passed since school had finally let out for the summer hols, and already Draco was mixed up in more than he could wrap his mind around. And even worse were the fits of non-contiguous insomnia that sprung up every now and then, the lack of sleep causing dark shadows to form beneath his ordinarily unblemished skin. All seemingly caused by the Merlin-forsaken bond Draco was certain Potter had caused, entangling them tighter than Draco could have ever imagined.

Somehow.

And it wasn't his fault that he still wasn't exactly sure as to the type of bond it was that had formed between the both of them; unfortunately, it hadn't occurred to Draco's parents to sit him down, in his younger years, and discuss the basics of bonds and such. Bonds, as far as he could derive from the thin paragraphs of information he'd extracted from the textbooks he still kept, were usually formed between wizards and witches by their own conscious will, after all. And what use would a simple bond bring to a Malfoy at the height of their power? None, his father would certainly answer. So, thereupon lay the reasoning behind his lack of knowledge on the subject.

And damn Potter for managing to, once again, fuck up Draco's life. Luck would have it that, just when he thought that things couldn't get any more awful or stranger, Potter would correct that baseless assumption of his, even when he held absolutely no responsibility towards the events that were currently unfolding. Karma, he remonstrated, was an evil, evil bitch.

'At least,' he thought woefully, as he stared up at the Muggles' bland, banal ceiling. 'I still have some things to entertain myself with.'

A sudden pain in his ankle took him by surprise, right then. Draco felt a wave of uncertainty take hold of him. Uncertainty that he would survive these circumstances with his sanity intact.

And with that, Draco groaned disgruntledly and stood in preparation to leave the room. A quick brushing of lint off his clothing later, and Draco was off to the, now familiar, playground.

Upon his arrival at the enclosure, he sighed and subsequently took in a lungful of the fresh air that finally surrounded him, feeling a tension he hadn't realised had been there leave his shoulders in a rush. It certainly felt a sight better than whenever Potter's aunt used whatever Muggle cleaning nonsense she saw fit to around the house; or, rather, when she did her reputable best to eliminate any and all trace of human interaction on every bit of furniture she was able. Which was practically all the time. Draco couldn't recall ever seeing even a house elf act as dedicated to keeping a room as spotless as that harridan did, and his father had never been one to shy away from harsh displays of his ire whenever he claimed to find anything lacking in the quality of perfection he craved within his household.

Draco, truthfully, had found himself on the other side of that scorn on more than just a few occasions.

He shook his head, as if to forcefully expel the lingering effects those thoughts still held over him, and sat on a swing, decidedly not the one on which Potter and he had enjoyed a most eerily light mood. Kicking off, Draco sent himself off into the air, gravity and sheer force of will his only guides. He felt himself travel higher and higher, faster and faster into the air, the closest to the likeness of flying astride a broom that Draco figured most Muggles could manage to obtain. However, despite his vague exuberance at the freedom the swings granted him, he could still taste the sour remnants of bitter in his throat, even as he sailed the winds and cleared his mind of everything but the most basics of his survival.

It was as he was finally letting go of the collective clutter within his mind that he was disturbed by panicked screams and a menacing laughter that bordered on hysteria. Draco halted in his swinging as he turned his head and tightened his grip on the metallic chains that still held him aloft.

'Ah,' he realised with yet another shake of the head, this one of irritation at the beleaguering teens off in the distance. Potter's pathetic oaf of a cousin, Duddykins or some such, and a bunch of thuggish brutes were taunting a thinner, smaller boy, practically still in his primary school years. 'At least the first-years have the ability to protect themselves,' Draco thought scornfully. 'This is just worthless squabbling.'

The boy was sat on his bum, elbows and arms atop the earth, speaking purely in whimpers. All the while, Duddy pounded his fist into the palm of his hand, the sound of skin slapping against skin probably adding an edge to the barbaric performance that Draco could only partially understand. Sure, physically hitting Potter had been fun while it had lasted, but such displays were barely even worthy of a vague spark of annoyance.

"Oy," he called out, stepping away from the, now motionless, swing. All eyes flew to him at his proclamation of attention, and Draco nearly glorified at the thought of being the cynosure of an audience before he remembered that these were just Muggles, and Draco needn't feel as if their attention was actually worth a single Knut of his time. "What is he, five? How about the lot of you," Draco aimed one of his fiercer sneers at them as he slowly stalked forwards with the grace and intimidation of a predator of the wild, "go and bugger off somewhere else?"

Duddy visibly paled at his words as he took an unconscious step back, his friends glancing back their at leader with frowns crossing their confused faces. As if they couldn't recognise danger when it stared them dead in the face, in a group performance that Draco thought would even do Potter justice. And how like Potter Draco was acting, right now. If he weren't positive of his own identity, he might've mistaken himself for a Gryffindor, and nearly shivered at the mere thought of maroon robes and golden trimmings, halting the movement before it could reveal itself. They would probably believe it to be perpetuated by fear, and Draco wouldn't stand for a worthless bunch of Muggles to ever think he was scared of them. Disgusted, yes. But frightened? Never.

"Hey, Dudley. Who's this ponce?"

Dudley seemed to shrink at that, seemingly unwilling to answer the question voiced by his minions. Draco considered it to be the wisest decision the brunet had ever made, and inclined his head in agreement. Dudley merely grimaced at that, to which Draco shook his head.

"Is that really all you've got?" Draco answered back at the boy, laughing at them with not just a slight moue of distaste clear on his face. "How about you scurry off to whence you came?"

It was when they began to edge in closer, and Duddy even farther away, that that annoyingly familiar voice met Draco's ears.

"Oy!" and of course he also had to take Draco's line. Potter always did have to take everything and keep it for himself, didn't he? Well, that wasn't strictly true, now that Draco thought on it, but no, he wasn't going to. Not right now. Not ever. "What's going on, Dudders?"

And there the hero was, in all his glory. If the audience was larger, teamed with the members of his little fan club, they would all most likely be swooning at the righteous tone of his voice. Draco narrowed his eyes at the git and folded his arms, turning his sneer from the group of Muggles onto Potter, instead. Boy Wonder appeared taken aback for a split second before he glared back and physically dismissed Draco from his attention as he drew in closer and faced the Muggles.

At Draco's glance down, the boy who had previously been cowering at the group's feet quickly sprang up, escaping before anyone could say otherwise.

"Nothing, Potter," and Potter's cousin was now speaking, having regained his own footing in the meantime. He straightened his spine and looked the brunet in the eyes, shying away from meeting Draco's own. And the blond felt the tiniest bit of satisfaction at that, before he quickly stamped down on that emotion. "And I suggest you leave now before you find yourself in the same position that git was in, just now."

"Yeah," one of the boys, this one with a heap of dirty blond hair littering his head, spoke up. "He owed us some money."

"Fifteen pence," another one said. "He owed us fifteen pence."

Draco rolled his eyes at the lot of them and turned his back.

"Oy, where are you going?"

Draco merely shot a two-finger salute at them all, not deeming even that worthy of the pithiest of responses. It was due to them that he was now nursing a most unfortunately timed headache and maybe the loss of more than a few brain cells. Trust the Muggles to manage to accomplish what even Crabbe and Goyle hadn't in their years together.

"Malfoy!"

Draco was startled. That was it. That was the only reason he had stopped at the sound of Potter's voice. It wasn't because of whom it belonged to, nor was it due to its pissed tone.

He turned about to face the brunet just as a curious sort of coldness swept over him as gently as the softest of blankets. He carefully folded his arms and shivered at the sudden frostiness of the air. Time seemingly becoming slower… and slower... And it was as an oddly familiar bout of numbness descended within him, taking with it his previous mood, that he finally realised what was happening.

He stood, horror-struck, as a Dementor drifted down from above, the gloom and despair that it carried causing the playground that had previously filled him with so much relief to grow darker and darker, as literal as metaphoric. The effects of which left him with less energy than he had ever felt, even after a third-year alongside the blasted creatures. That numbness came over him in a stronger wave than previous, and he regretted not ever having asked Professor Snape to tutor him in mastering the Patronus charm, even now when he fully understood the enormity of what a Dementor could do. Could cause someone to do. Could make them feel and doubt and shiver and - oh, Merlin.

He felt as if he were on the verge of collapse, his knees weak and arms curiously achy and his thoughts dulled down to the iciness of an ocean at storm. And then a hand clasped his own and a warmth overtook him. Alongside that came as a stronger need - a pulsing, itching, bursting need - to get Potter out of danger as soon as possible took hold of him, as if he were a puppeteer's marionette.

"Expecto Patronum," a voice rumbled to his right. Following the words came piercing light and warmth, a brief solace that shielded Draco temporarily from the draining cold. He grasped the chance with all he had, tugging on Potter's hand.

"Potter, we need to go," Draco could hardly recognise his voice, as scratchy as it sounded to his own ears. He quickly cleared his throat and tried again when the brunet tried the charm a second time, this time unsucceeding. "Potter, now."

His tone seemed to match the urgency he felt at the situation, as Potter's gaze soon met his own. They held for a second longer before the brunet nodded carefully and called out for his cousin to follow. Draco would've been displeased at the delay if he couldn't feel his heart slow down its previously even beating and his arm nearly tear from its socket, the light from the charm dying down.

And despite the pain, Draco pushed on, determined to follow Potter and escape from the feeling that the Dementors seemed to awaken in all their victims, for Draco refused to be one of them, a soulless carcass like his Great Aunt Athena had become after the Plague had taken Europe by storm all those centuries ago.

They soon passed through a grove of trees, too thin to really be viewed upon as a forest, and ended at the outskirts of an old tunnel. Though the air was warmer against Draco's oddly cool skin, Draco still didn't feel safe. As they tread through the mouth of the tunnel, Potter nudged Draco with a bony elbow. Draco soon picked up on what the Gryffindor wanted him to do and demonstrated such with a quick flick of his wrist and a near-indistinct murmur. The glow of his Lumos shown in the space and they both leaned against the walls - Draco more gingerly, seemingly more aware of the stains and dirt that encrusted the surface than his current ally - with a harmonious sigh.

"Potter," Draco started at that, having forgotten that Potter's lug of a cousin had been following them. "What was that?"

"Dementors," he explained, panting for breath. "They suck your soul out, Dudders."

The giant lump seemed to grow weary at that, as if Potter had been playing some sort of huge practical joke on him for some time, and he was tired of all the nonsense. But then Draco felt the cold come back and he pulled on Potter's hand - and why hadn't he noticed he was still holding the git's hand, as if he were a scared schoolgirl seeking comfort from her latest dalliance? - as he dragged them further down the tunnel. It became harder and harder to see as they strode deeper and deeper within, and Draco was distinctly grateful when Potter raised his wand and cast a Lumos of his own.

The Dementors seemed to be after one or the both of them because they continued to follow them, even after they'd been running for a good amount of time. Draco was just contemplating how long and far they'd strode within the tunnel when he heard Potter's voice ricochet off the walls at a greater distance than he should've been, had he been dutifully running alongside them like a good Chosen One should. But of course, Potter had always been an awful troublemaker, hadn't he?

"Expecto Patronum," Draco tried, mimicking the movement and pronunciation of the charm fruitlessly, a grunt of frustration escaping his throat when nothing came out of his wand. He felt a hot flash of envy at that, for not even a flicker of the blinding white light he'd seen emerge from Potter's wand came to being.

And then the Dementors descended.

Draco's scream pitched off the walls, adjoined with Dudders' and Potter's own, vision blurring as he fell to unconsciousness.

When Draco next woke, it was to a cacophony of cats meowing and the distinct smell of rotten cabbage. He groaned at that, a headache piercing his temples alarmingly. He didn't especially crave wakefulness, but the smell was causing him to want to vomit up what he'd eaten the night before. A sudden growl of his belly portended Draco's sudden desire for food.

A cool hand was then placed on his forehead, as if checking for a temperature, and he sensed an additional four other people in the room. When he finally cracked open his eyes, he groaned once more at the bright sight of a disturbingly orange robe. Draco couldn't think of a single worst thing to wake up to when your head was throbbing in concert with the beat of your heart.

"Is this hell?" Draco inquired to a higher power above. "Because it sure does feel like it."

"No, Mister Malfoy," an old man's voice called out in answer. "This isn't anything of the sort. You are at Mrs. Figg's home, resting after an encounter with a group of Dementors. How are you feeling, dear boy?"

Draco felt the need to count to ten in French, and then twenty when that didn't seem to work. Right when he'd finally got to trois-et-un, the old man called out again, "Are you ignoring me, Mister Malfoy?"

The old geezer actually sounded wounded.

With a sign, Draco opened his eyes, once again, and this time kept them open. The woman's house looked the same as it did the last time he'd seen it, though Draco wondered if she'd acquired yet another cat in the few weeks since he'd entered via Floo. Potter was sitting a little ways from him in a huge, cushioned armchair that seemed to want to devour him alive, so low was he sinking into the upholstery. The other two occupants of the room - Mrs. Figg and Dudders - were sitting, in complete contrast to Potter, upright and straight-backed, wary of something. But of what?

"Mister Malfoy?"

"Yes, Professor?" Draco said in answer, mentally rolling his eyes at the frequent and tiresome questions. All he wanted was to go back to sleep. Preferably out of view of the others. It was unsettling, to find oneself awaken in a room chock full of people he'd never wanted to see him in such a vulnerable state as sleep. "What happened to the Dementors, sir?"

The man brightened at that. Draco felt the overwhelming need to roll his eyes again at the way the open change in countenance, expression resembling that of a Crup pleading for attention from its masters.

"They were sent back to Azkaban, of course," he answered loftily. The question still hung in the air, however: why had they been there in the first place?

Potter, of course, was the one to raise the question.

"Professor," he started warily, struggling to sit up dignifiedly in a most undignified seat. Draco had to muffle a snort when the teen's efforts only managed to sink him even deeper into the furniture, and once more when the brunet had the gall to glare at him. Draco hadn't been the one to choose it, after all. What was he so upset at Draco for? "Why were the Dementors here, at Privet Drive? I thought they all… well, lived at Azkaban?"

"That does beg the question, Mister Potter," Dumbledore's previously bubbly mood seemed to settle down to a cool froth, a seriousness creeping into his voice that Draco couldn't help but think was rather disarming in the Headmaster. "The Dementors are under the control of those who hold the power to do so."

"Are you saying the Ministry sent the Dementors after us?" Draco sat up as the idea seemed to come to life within him, his mind connecting the events to those positions his father had made him slave over memorising when he'd been taught the ways of politics, all those years ago. "Or one of us in particular?"

Potter managed to somehow straighten up in the seat at Draco's speculative tone.

"Oy," he growled, a flash of anger bright in his eyes. "I didn't cause this! How do we know it wasn't you or your Death Eater father, Ferret?"

Draco coloured visibly, flinching at the memory more than anything else. "Let's recount the ways you've managed to screw up the lives of the people around you, huh, Potter?"

Potter jumped up from the chair at that, "Did you just make reference to what I think you did?"

Draco rethought his words and snorted at that. "No, blockhead. I didn't mean anything having to do with Diggory. I'm more meaning your friends than anything else."

Potter appeared stunned at that revelation, and Draco noticed how he seemed to shrink when he wasn't itching to fisticuff with someone. And just when his mind seemed on the verge of associating Potter with images of him in similar positions in a most dissimilar fashion to fighting, Dumbledore cleared his throat pointedly at the both of them.

"Boys," the simple word seemed to encompass his disappointment at them in such a way that even Draco felt himself deflate at its utterance. When Potter finally calmed and settled himself on the floor, rather than try to take up arms with the Chair of Doom, he beamed.

"Now," he clapped his hands. "Who wants tea?"

* * *

"So," Potter started on the walk back to the Muggles' house. "What was that, back there?"

Draco groaned in question as a sharp pain overtook his ankle, once again, as if it had been lurking in the background until just when he'd settled back down. Instead of whinging about it, though, he instead chose to keep the occurrence to himself, if only because they were in the line of sight of any Muggles' wandering eyes.

"Malfoy," Potter called once again, sidestepping the blond until he was suddenly in front of him, hands on his hips in a posture he undoubtedly copied from Granger. "Answer my question."

"What was what back where?" Draco was confused, and not only just because the throb in his ankle seemed to escalate as the brunet grew more and more frustrated, but also because with the pain came his ability to think clearly. "I have absolutely no idea of what you're on about this time, Potter."

"On the playground," the brunet rolled his eyes at Draco, and Draco bit back a sharp riposte. "You knew the Dementors were there long before I did. And once you snapped out of whatever daze they had put you in, you almost immediately chose to try and lead me out of there, instead of running away with your tail between your legs, like you usually do."

"What?" Draco was completely baffled by what Potter had just said, and to no fault of his own, most assuredly. "The Dementors were there long before I tugged on your arm."

"No, they weren't."

"Explain why you were already casting the Patronus charm long before I had managed to get you to come to your senses and flee, then."

"You were shivering and shaking even before they were finally in my line of sight," Potter said offhandedly. "All I did was react to what I couldn't see. And then the cold was all around me, same as with every other encounter I'd had with them, and… Well, you start to recognise the feeling, after a while."

"I have no idea what to tell you," Draco stated honestly, looking Potter dead in his bright, green eyes. "Because all I know is that I felt the Dementors, you apparently did too, and we tried our best to run from the inevitable as it chased after us.

"Now, I'm going to go upstairs and sleep."

But when Draco tried to take another step, he nearly fell over from the pain that burst forth from his ankle like the death of a star. It was white-hot and all-encompassing, and he almost immediately fought for balance by placing his hands on Potter's arms.

"Are you okay?" Potter called out in shock, his hands gripping beneath Draco's armpits at the blond's near-topple. "Oy, Malfoy."

Draco shook his head and tried to step away from Potter, refusing to surrender to whatever was trying to pull them closer and closer together. But the pain in his ankle was preventing him from balancing on his own two feet, and he buried his head in the place where the brunet's shoulder and neck met, and exhaled steadily. Another flash of pain shot through him and he tried to bite back a groan at the continuous sensation, too concentrated on the sensation to pay heed to Potter's physical freeze at the touch of Draco's warm breath on his naked skin.

"I-my ankle," Draco grunted, squeezing his eyes shut as the pain seemed to travel from his ankle to his hip, where the mark he knew was there seemed to flare and burn, sparking to life.

Potter quickly brought Draco's arm over his broad shoulders and advised him to walk carefully as they made their way over to the Muggles' front porch. And then with more thoughtful, careful manoeuvring - all without commentary on Draco's part, for once in his short life - they made it through the door, up the stairs, and headed towards Potter's room.

Draco winced at the skyrocketing pain as he collapsed on Potter's bed, Potter wincing back in what seemed to be sympathy.

"Take off my shoes and socks, Potter," Draco demanded imperiously, and Potter merely glanced at him, a blank expression the only sign he'd heard the blond. Decidedly not rolling his eyes, Draco muttered a quick, "Please," to which the brunet then acceded to his harshly-worded request. When he finally uncovered Draco's foot, his eyes slid up to Draco's own piercing grey ones.

"I give you permission to molest my ankle, Potter, yes," Draco said as he rolled his eyes. The pain seemed to settle down a bit as Potter touched his ankle carefully, causing Draco's hips and back to jerk and arch off the thin mattress' length.

"Ah," Draco gasped, eyes widening as the pain morphed to pleasure, escalating to such an extent that he soon worried about embarrassing himself in front of the brunet. But Potter seemed to be so incredibly intent on his ankle, squinting at what new rune now lay upon his skin's previously perfect surface, that he missed Draco's reaction entirely. Draco let out a soft sigh, at that. Thank Salazar for small blessings, and oblivious prats.

"Lemme see," Draco slurred slightly, adjusting himself so as to try and hide what was possibly his hardest erection yet. With Potter backed up slightly, he sat back up and lifted up his leg.

"It says, 'Courage,' this time, ironically enough," Draco said primly, settling back until he was laying down rather than sitting upright. "What do you think all this means, Potter?"

"I have absolutely no idea," Potter muttered after a few seconds of silent contemplation. "But do you think this has to do with you arriving here?"

Draco nearly rolled his eyes again before he also paused to ponder that thought. "Well," he rolled his tongue slightly over the word, trying to work out the connection. "I certainly never had nearly this much of a negative reaction to your mere presence, so maybe."

"Then it must have to do with the things we've done or said to each other, yeah?" Potter launched back, legs crossed atop the other as he spoke. "Think back."

"Well, there was when I first arrived here," Draco muttered, head tilted back and eyes closed shut. "Following that, I settled into the room your aunt most graciously hoisted upon me…"

"Would you have rather slept on the floor?" Potter called in outrage.

"Then we were eating dinner…"

"You practically threatened my uncle, then," Potter said.

Draco paused. "And before this summer, I wouldn't have ever dreamed of doing that. But… it looked so wrong."

"Wrong?" Potter asked in confusion. "What do you mean by that?"

"You were completely under someone else's control, you realise," Draco drawled. "And while I had always thought I would love to have you under mine, it looked… disgusting. I really wanted to hurt your uncle, and for reasons I still don't exactly understand."

Potter looked at Draco differently, then, and he couldn't help but avert his gaze to the ceiling high above his head.

"And then there was when I fixed your face and glasses after your Uncle nearly punched your lights out," Draco grumbled at the memory, still able to recall the confusion he'd felt soon after the act. And, just as before, he still didn't really understand his reasoning behind his actions. It was if he was acting on pure impulse, with the likeness of a Gryffindor rather than the Slytherin he was born to be. "And when I woke up sweaty from a fitful bout of rest just to discover you whimpering in your bed."

"I was not whimpering," Potter rebuked, before he paused in bewilderment. "Wait, you had just woken from your own nightmare?"

"I never said it was a nightmare, Potter," Draco answered, glancing back down to the brunet's emerald eyes. "I had trouble sleeping. I couldn't even remember what I had been dreaming about shortly after I woke up, in fact. It was just the summer heat."

"Then explain away why you woke me up from that nightmare a couple nights ago."

Draco's eyes widened and he felt the sensation of a flush climb up to his cheeks. That had been a mistake, Draco knew. He'd managed to get too close to Potter, and had even foolishly entertained the vaguest thoughts of seducing the prat. But that wouldn't do.

"I can practically hear you thinking, you bloody Snake," Potter growled, scrambling up onto his bed without the slightest provocation. "As long as we are here, you can go ahead and explain. Now."

Draco stared up into Potter's eyes and felt a heat surround him, his thought process coming to a sudden stop. He opened his mouth to speak but the words wouldn't leave. Scarcely a sound could be made, and he swallowed the saliva that nearly flooded his mouth hurriedly.

"I-" Draco's eyes immediately landed on the brunet's messy raven hair, and he calmed himself down. This was only Potter, after all. Annoying, irritating, chivalrous, stupid, myopic, gitty Potter the Boy Who Lived To Never Die. A sight less frightening and nerve wracking than Professor Snape had ever been. Draco cleared his throat and said the first words that came to mind, "We can't possibly be sharing dreams, Potter."

Potter glared down at Draco; well, Draco thought he was. He could feel the heat of the brunet's gaze on the side of his face, but Draco wasn't ever going to look back into his eyes again, thank you very much.

"And where did you get that idea from?"

Draco rolled his eyes at the teen's utter ignorance of everything but Quidditch and saving the world and generally being a pissant.

"Immediately waking up from dreams I can never really remember and rousing you from a nightmare right after certainly does seem to strike one as a touch coincidental, does it not?"

"One of the effects of the bond or whatever it is between us must be dream sharing, yeah? And the tendency to wish to protect me."

"I do  _not_  wish to protect you, Potter," Draco sputtered, breaking his oath to not look into Potter's eyes just to look into Potter's eyes. They were bright like a forest, but light like the rarest of jewels. And the dark, long eyelashes that encased them didn't help Draco's wandering mind. And was he still hard? Draco was suddenly nervous of the discovery of a whole different sort of problem. "Now, get off me."

"Yes, you do, Malfoy," Potter smirked, completely disregarding Draco's near-plea for space of some kind.

"No, I don't," Draco clenched his teeth at the feel of his erection scraping against the fabric of his pants and doubly his trousers. "Now, get. Off. Me."

"What happens if I don't?" Potter seemed to have gone mad with some sort of power, because he was suddenly looming over Draco like some sort of dreadful palm tree. "Gonna hit me?"

Draco narrowed his eyes at the Gryffindor before pushing him off himself with as much strength he could muster. Thankful for his untucked shirt, he strode immediately for the door, only to have his break for escape evaded by Potter.

"Move!" Draco growled, trying to slip around Potter only to have the brunet brush up on him in just the wrong way and…

"Oh," Potter's eyes widened significantly and Draco was now humiliated and furious with himself and he pushed him out of the way, ran to his room, shut the door shut behind him.

'Merlin's sodding pants,' Draco thought to himself. 'What am I going to do, now?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY POSTED.  
> SLEEP HERE I COME.
> 
> pls leave a comment kk thnx bai *kisses*  
> ;P


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